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OUFL BOYS 



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OUR BOYS 

A Comedy in Three Acts 



By 

HENRY J. BYRON 



Reprinted from an acting copy, containi?jg all the "gags '* 
and stage business employed in professional per- 
formances of the piece, and arranged 
for amateur production 

By Mr. FRANK E. FOWLE 



BOSTON 

WALTER H. BAKER & CO. 

1915 



1^^^^\ 



Our Boys 



■3^■\^^^ 



CHARACTERS 

{As first performed at the Vaude-ville Theatre^ London^ 
a continuous run of onjer i,6oo nights.) 



Vaudeville.^ Jan, id., Boston Museum., 

187S. March 24^ l8jQ. 

Sir Geoffry Charapneys, 

a county magnate, - Mr William Farren. J. Burrows. 
Talbot (jhampiieys, his 

son - - - Mr. Thomas Thorne. Henry Crisp. 
Perkyn Middlewick, of 

Devonshire House, a 

retired butterman - Mr. David James. William Warren. 
Charles Middlewick, his 

son - - - Mr. Charles Warner. J. S. Haworth. 
Kempster, Sir Geoffry' s 

man servant - - Mr V7. Destocq. W. Melbourne. 
Poddies, Middlewick' s 

butler - - . . Mr. Howard. G. A. Schiller. 
Violet Melrose, an 

heiress . . - Miss Kate Bishop Marie Wainwright. 
Mary Melrose, her poor 

cousin - - . . Miss Roselle. Annie Clarke. 
Clarissa Champueys, Sir 

Oeoffry' s sister - Miss Sophie Larkin. Mrs. J. R. Vincent. 
Belinda, a lodging house 

slave - - - Miss Cicely Richards. Lizzie Harold. 

Time ; — The Present. 



IV here tt had 

Bjstou G'.ohe., 
Sept. 21^ J 8'/ J. 

J. C. Cowper. 

Owen Marlowe. 

George Honey. 
H. S. Murdock. 
R. Struthers. 
R. J. Di:iori. 
Lillian Cvniway. 
Katharine Rogers. 
Mrs. C. F Maeder. 
Jennie Gourlay. 



SYNOPSIS 

Act I. At the Butterman' s. Perkyn Middlewick' s country 
house. 

Act II. At the Baronet's. Drawing-room at Sir Geoffry's. 

Act III. At Mrs. Patcham's boarding-house after a lapse of 
seven months. 




Copyright, 191 5, by Walter H. Ba.ij:br & Qo*, 
©CI.D 41604 ^^ ^^ '^^ * 






o 



COSTUMES 



no 

p ACT I 

Sir Geoffry Champneys. Fashionable walking suit, cane, 
gloves, etc., gray wig, and gray side-whiskers and moustache. 

Talbot Champnevs. Light suit, eye-glasses, flashy necktie, 
blonde wig parted in centre, and small blonde moustache. 

Perkyn Middlewick. Light coat and vest, dark pants, bald 
wig, short reddish hair, also short reddish side-whiskers. 

Charles Middlewick. Fashionable walking suit, black wig 
and moustache, gloves, etc. 

PoDDLES. Full dress. 

Kempster. Livery. 

Violet. Handsome walking dress. 

Mary. Suit somewhat plainer than Violet's. 

Clarissa. Old lady's dress. 

ACT II 

All in full evening dress. Middlewick's coat and vest a trifle 
old-fashioned. 

ACT III 

Sir Geoffry. Overcoat, high hat and cane. 

Talbot. Short gray suit, quite shabby. 

Middlewick. Cape, old-fashioned hat, cane, etc. 

Charles. Dark suit, quite shabby. 

Violet and Mary. Plain walking dresses. 

Clarissa. Plain dress and shawl, very large bonnet trimmed 
with quite an assortment of flow^ers. 

Belinda. Old shabby short dress, torn apron, shoes unbut- 
toned, face and arms smeared with dirt, hair generally mussed up. 



PROPERTIES 



ACT I 



All furniture to look new and *' showy/* New books, etc. 
Lorgnette for Clarissa. Letter for Middlewick. Parasols for Mary 
and Violet. Cigar for Talbot. 

ACT II 

Solid, substantial furniture. Plants, palms, etc., in conservatory 
at back. Napkin and billiard cue for Middlewick. Pipe and to- 
bacco for Talbot. 

ACT III 

Old shoe on mantelpiece. Box of blacking and brushes on 
mantel. Small piece of looking-glass on mantel. Ink, pen and 
paper on table. Roll of manuscript for Charles. Books on table. 
Coal shovel and hod with a little coal, off L. 2nd E. Tongs and 
poker at fire. Small piece of butter on table. Two eggs, few 
shells and cups on table. Basket and eatables for Clarissa. Small 
stove or fireplace, old whisk broom by fireplace, old Gazetteer 
for Charles, old tin dish tray on table at back. Chicken for Cla- 
rissa. Talbot's hat on rack up R. Envelope for Sir Geoffry. 
Envelope, half-sovereign and card for Middlewick, 



INTRODUCTION 

Henry J. Byron, the author of ** Our Boys ** and a long Hst of 
other popular plays, was born in Manchester, England, in 1835, 
and was educated first at a school in Essex and finally at St. 
Peter's College, Eaton Square. His great-grandfather, Rev. 
Henry Byron, was first cousin to Lord Byron, the poet, but if his 
professional bent was in part determined by this strain, the theat- 
rical efficiency that made him one of the best known and popular 
men in the theatre of his time was undoubtedly due to the fact that 
he was in part of Jewish descent. He was intended by his father 
for the Navy, but against this as well as the profession of medicine 
that was proposed as an alternative livelihood of blood-letting, he 
resolutely set his face, and after an obliging but brief essay of the 
latter profession he went into the " provinces" and turned actor. 
He met the usual hardships of the profession under such circum- 
stances, having upon occasion, as he tells somewhere in the course of 
his writings, played eighteen parts in one week besides singing be- 
tween the acts, receiving for this arduous labor half salary only for 
the week because of bad business. This disgusted him for a season 
with the "profession," and he entered as a student of law at the 
Middle Temple, but following many distinguished precedents, in- 
stead of going to the bar he became a writer for the stage. His 
first piece, a burlesque of " Fra Diavolo," was brought out at the 
Strand Theatre in 1858. Its success was such that other parodies 
followed in rapid succession from his pen, and their piquancy and 
humor made them the talk of the town. In 1865 he joined with 
Miss Marie Wilton in the notable transformation of the Queen's 
Theatre into the Prince of Wales', where Robertson's great success 
was made, and wrote for this theatre several successful plays. 
For other houses he wrote melodrama after melodrama, following 
a fashion of the time, and with "Cyril's Success,'* produced in 
1868, began the long list of the peculiar comedies for which he is 
best known. Since 1858 he has written over one hundred plays, 
has edited " Fun," contributed to " Punch," written ** Paid in 
Full " and another novel besides many other occasional contribu- 
tions to magazines and newspapers, not infrequently playing in his 
own pieces as well. Whatever criticism may be directed against 
the quahty of his work, its quanUty and the industry of its author 
must be praised without stint. 

" Our Boys," the most popular of Byron's plays, and, measured 
by the public demand for it in the theatre, the most popular play 
of its time, was produced at the Vaudeville Theatre, London, on 
January 16, 1875, where it ran continuously until April 18, 1879 — 

5 



6 INTRODUCTION 

a total of more than sixteen hundred performances. It is inter- 
esting to note that this piece, hke most other great popular suc- 
cesses in theatrical history, might have been bought in the begin- 
ning outright for a few hundred pounds. Managerial stupidity 
and self-distrust thus brought a fortune to this author from this un- 
valued source besides a trifle of thirty thousand pounds to each of 
the two managers, Thorne and James, who produced the play, 
besides acting with distinguished success its leading parts. 

The American rights to •• Our Boys" were secured with char- 
acteristic enterprise by the late Augustin Daly, who produced it 
on September i8, 1875, at his Fifth Avenue Theatre, in New 
York, with James Lewis as Perkyn Middlewick, Fanny Davenport 
as Mary Mehose and Maurice Barrymore as Talbot Champneys. 
The form in which the play appeared on this occasion was not ex- 
actly the one that Byron had originally given to it, Mr. Daly 
having intervened, according to his habit, and to some extent 
"adapted" the piece for the American market. The play was 
first seen as Byron wrote it and as it was originally produced in 
London, on June 12, 1878, when William Horace Lingard appeared 
as the Butterman in New York. 

" Our Boys " was first produced in Boston at the Globe Theatre, 
under the management of Arthur Cheney, on September 21, 1875, 
with the cast given on page two, and later at the then still famous 
Boston Museum on March 24, 1879. The popularity of this play 
was scarcely less in the United States than in England and it was 
the subject of numerous ** revivals " for many years. By ama- 
teurs, for whose purposes it is singularly well suited, it was adopted 
at the start with an enthusiasm that forty years have hardly suf^ced 
to noticeably abate. It is safe to say that there has been scarcely 
a week in that long period that has not seen one or more perform- 
ances of this play on the amateur stage. 

F. E. CHASE. 

July g, igij. 



Our Boys 



ACT I 

Scene. — A handsomely furnished drawing-room at Middle- 
wick's house. Double doors c. back with French win- 
dojvs on each side; doors r. and l. A little i., of Q.y 
down stage, there is a table with a chair on each side ; up 
R, a little there is an easy chair, and down R., a sofa. 
There are chairs down L., up r., and between the centre 
door and windows on both sides. Garden backing seefi 
through windows at back, 

LIGHTS full up* 
Enter PoDDLEs, l., as curtain rises. 

Pod. (after pause, looking at watcK). Half-past two, I do 
declare, and the young gents not arrived yet ; train's late, no 
doubt. {Goes up to c. windows.) No wonder master's anx- 
ious ; I dare say Sir GeofFry's just as anxious about his dear 
son. {Goes down l. c.) Bless me, to hear 'em talking about 
'*Our Boys," as they call 'em, one would think there were no 
other sons and heirs in the whole country but these two young 
gents a-coming home to their governors this afternoon. 

Enter Kempster, c. 

Kemp. Mr. Poddies, any news of the young gents yet? 
Sir Geoffry has just driven over, and 

PoD. {up L. c). They ought to be here by this time. Mr. 
Charles wrote mentioning the time, and 

Enter Sir Geoffry Champneys, c. 

Sir G. What a time you are, Kempster. Why don't you 
let me know if Mr. 



8 OUR BOYS 

Kemp. I beg your parding, Sir GeofFry ; I were just inquir- 
ing of 

Sir G. Yes, yes, get back to the carriage. (Exit Kemp., 
C. to L. To Pod.) Is your master in ? 

(^Hands hat and cane to Pod. ) 

Pod. ril see, Sir GeofFry. If you will be seated. Sir Geof- 
fry, ni 

Exit, L. D. 

Sir G. (^pacing the room impatiently and looking at watch 
and Jidgetting). Yes, yes. The train's late; but I suppose 
they won*t — — Why hasn't Talbot answered my letter? 
Why does he keep me on the rack ? He knows how anxious 1 
am. (^Goes down r. c.) Haven't set eyes on the dear boy 
for three years, and I'm longing to hear his views on men and 
things. They'll be the same as mine, I know. 

Enter Miss Clarissa Champneys, c, the Baronet's sister — 
an elderly youfig lady. She goes down to Sir G., r. c. 

Clar. I couldn't refrain from following you, GeofFry. I 
am so anxious about the dear boy. 

Sir G. (crossing l. ; tetchily^. Of course you're anxious. 
I'm anxious. 

Clar. (standing by chair r. of table, c). And I've no 
doubt Mr. Middlewick is just as anxious about his dear boy. 

Sir G. Clarissa, I'm surprised at you. Because these 
young men happen to have met recently in Paris, and are com- 
ing home in company, that is no reason you should link them 
together in that ridiculous manner. (Clar. sits r. of table, c.) 
My son comes of an ancient, honored race. The other young 
man is the son of a butterman. 

Clar. A retired owq, remember. 

Sir G. {sittings of table, c). Impossible ! A butterman 
can't retire. 

You may break, you may shatter the tub if you will, 
But the scent of the butter will hang by it still. 

Mr. Middlewick is a most estimable person, — charitable — as he 
ought to be; and has considerable influence in the neighbor- 
hood. 

Clar. Which accounts for your tolerating him. 



OUR BOYS 9 

Sir G. I admit it. The dream of my life has been that my 
boy Talbot should distinguish himself in Parliament. To that 
end I mapped out a complete course of instruction for him to 
pursue ; directed him to follow the plan laid down implicitly ; 
never to veer to the right or left, but to do as I bid him, like — 
like 

Clar. Like a machine. 

Sir G. Eh ? Yes, like a machine. Machines never strike. 

Clar. I hope he'll answer your expectations. Considering 
his advantages, his occasional letters haven't been remarkabUy 
have they? {^Rises and goes down r. c. ; aside?) Except for 
brevity — ^which, in his case, has not been the soul of wit. 

Sir G. (rising). Dear ! dear ! Clarissa, what a woman 
you are ! What would you have of the boy ? His letters have 
been a little short, but invariably //Mj'. I don't want my son 
to be a literary man. I want him to shine in politics and 

Clar. Suppose Mr. Middlewick's views regarding his son 
are similar. Supposing he wants him to shine in politics. 

Sir G. (l. c). Clarissa, you seem to take a great interest 
in Mr. Middlewick. A man without an H to his back. (Clar. 
goes up to c.) A man who — ( crossing to r. c.) who eats with 
his knife, who behaves himself in society like an amiable gold- 
digger, and who 

Clar. Who is coming up the path. {Goes downh, c.) 
So moderate your voice, Geoffry, or he'll hear you. 

Sir G. (r. c). You're a very irritating woman, Clarissa, 
and I don't — don't 

(Mr. Perkyn Middlewick appears at French windows. He 
is a sleek, comfortable man of about fifty,) 

Mid. {going down r. c. to Sir G.). Hah ! Sir Geoffry, 
glad to see you. {Crosses front of table to Clar.) Miss 
Champneys, your 'umble servant. {Shakes hands; Sir G. 
shakes hands distantly, Clar. war7nly.) Phew! ain't it 'ot? 
awful 'ot. 

Sir G. {loftily, r.). It is very ivarni. 

Mid. (c). Warm ! / call it 'ot. {To Clar.) What do 
you call it ? 

Clar. (l.). /call it decidedly *'//ot." 

Mid. That's what / say. /say it's 'ot. Well, Sir Geof- 
fry, any noos ? 

Sir G. No news. 

Mid. No noos ! Ain't you heard from your son ? 



lO OUR BOYS 

Sir G. Not a line. 

Mid. Oh, my boy's written me a letter of about eight pages. 
He'll be here soon ; 1 sent the shay. 

( Takes letter from pocket, ) 

Sir G. Sent the what ? 

Mid. The shay — the shay. 

Sir G. Oh, the chaise? (Sits R., on sofa.) 

Mid. No, only one of 'em. They'll be here directly. 
What's the good of Charley writing me a letter with half of it 
in foreign languages? (Examines letter.^ Here's a bit of 
French here, and a morsel of 'Talian there ^ and a slice of Latin, 
I suppose it is, further on, and then a something out of one of 
the poets — leastways, I suppose it is, for it's awful rubbish — 
then, lor ! regler rigmarole altogether. S'pose he done it to 
show as the money wasn't wasted on his eddication. 

Sir G. (with satisfaction). Hah 1 rather different from my 
son. He prefers to reserve the fruits of his years of study un- 
til he can present them in person. Your^on^ Mr. Middlewick, 
has followed the example of the strawberry sellers and dazzled 
you with the display of the top. (Rises.) Perhaps when you 
search beloiu you may find the contents of the pottle not so sat- 
isfactory. (Goes up.) 

Mid. (down c.y aside). Mayhap I may. Mayhap the front 
tubs is butter and the rest dunifnies. When I first started in 
business I'd the finest stock in Lambeth — to look at. But they 
was all sham. The tubs was 'oiler if you turned 'em round, 
and the v try yams was 'eardess delooders. Can Charley's let- 
ter be? — Noy I won't believe it. 

Clar. (aside to him). Don't, dear Mr. Middlewick, don't. 

(Goes up L., in pleasing co? fusion.) 

Mid. (aside). That's a very nice, sensible woman. It ain't 
iht first time she's been civil to me. I'll play the polite to her 
if it's only to rile old poker-back. (Goes up to her^ l.) 

Sir G. (coming down r.). I knew *' our boys " would drive 
here first, Mr. Middlewick, which must be my excuse for this 

NOISE of carriage, ofL 

intrusion, and Here they are ! here they are ! 

Mid. {going up to window, c). That's them ! that's them ! 

(Clar. crosses to Sir G., r.) 



OUR BOYS 11 

Sir G. (r.). I feel actually faint, Clarissa. {Sinks on sofa,) 
The thought of seeing my dear, handsome, clever boy again is 

Clar. {aside). Don't exhibit this ridiculous weakness, 

Geoffry. 

Sir G. Before a tradesman, too. You are right. (Rises.) 
Mid. (coming down l.). I feel a bit of a — sort of a — kind 

of a fluttering myself. 

Enter Charles Middlewick, at c. window. 

Char. Father ! Dad ! Dear old governor ! 

{Rushes to his father's arms, down L.) 

Mid. My boy ! My boy ! 

(Embraces him; they are demonstrative in their delight. 
Char, is a hands ome, gallant yoimg fellow,) 

Sir G. (r.). Yes, but vvhere's my ^oi\} Where's Talbot? 
(Enter Talbot Champneys. He is a washed-otit youths with 
yellow-reddish hair parted down the middle ; a faint effort 
at a fluffy whisker and moustache ; dreadfully overdressed^ 
and has a limp look generally; an eye-glass y and a soft 
namby-pamby manner. Sir G. goes up r. c. to meet Tal, 
Clar. crosses r.) Talbot, my dear boy, I'm so delighted 
to 

Tal. Yes, yes ; how are you ? Bless my life, how gray 
you've got — shouldn't have known you. {Goes down r. to 
Clar.) And — that's not Aunt Clarissa? Dear, dear! such 
an alteration in three years — shouldn't have known you. 

(Kisses her ; they turn aside conversing — Clar., Tal., Sir G.) 

Mid. (l.). Well, Charley, old boy, how do I look, eh ? 
Pretty 'arty for an old 'un. 

Char. Yes, yes, splendid. (To him, aside.) ZTearty, 
dad, /zearty. 

Mid. Well, I said 'arty. And you, Charley — there ! 
Growed out of all knowledge. 

Char, (aside), Growed — hem ! (Seems annoyed at his 
father's ignorance. Aside to him.) ''Grown," governor, 
"grown." 

Mid. Ain't got nothing to groan for, (Aside.) Rum 
notions they pick up abroad. But, Charley, you ain't intro- 



12 OUR BOYS 

duced me to your friend, Mr. Talbot. Do the honors, do the 
honors. 

Char. (l. c). Talbot, this is my father. 

Mid. {crossing c). Proud to know you, sir. 

(Char, to l.) 

Tal. (r. c, through his glass). How do? how do? 

Mid. (c). 'Arty as a buck, and fresh as a four- year-old, 
thankee. Hope we shall see a good deal of you, Mr. Talbot — 
any friend of my son's 

Sir G. (r. c). Yes, exacdy, Mr. Middlewick. Flattered, 
I'm sure, but our boys' lines of life will be widely apart, I 
expect. (Tal. goes up c.) Your son, I presume, will embark 
in commerce, whilst mine will, I trust, shirie in a public and, 
excuse me for adding, a more elevated sphere. 

Mid. {aside, l. c). Yes, he looks like a shiner. 

Clar. (r. of Sir G.). But, Geoffry, probably Mr. Middle- 
wick and his son would like to be alone a little, so 

Mid. Just so. {Aside.') She is a sensible woman. {To 
them.) I shouldn't mind if you did '*get out" for a short 
time. 

Sir G. Exactly. I want a talk with Talbot too, and as 
the ponies are put up [joining Tal. up c), Talbot, we'll have 
a stroll through the grounds. 

Tal. I don't mind. Only I'm jolly hungry, that's all. 

Exit, c. and R., zvith Sir G. 

Mid. {c, aside to Clar.). Miss Champneys, what's your 
candid opinion of your nephew ? 

Clar. (r. c). K fiumskull f {Goes up J) 

Exit, c. and R. 

Mid. {to R. c). She is a sensible woman. Charley, not 
to put too fine a point upon it, your friend's a fooL I say it 
deliberately, Charley, he's a hass. 

Char. (l. c, deprecatingly). Oh, dad ! 

Mid. And his father destines him for a public career. Ha ! 
ha ! Him ever take the public — why, he ain't got it in him to 
ta"ke a beer-shop. ( Goes up c, jnoppifig his head.) 

Char, {crossiftg to r. c. ; aside). Is it that he has grown 
more vulgar, or that / have grown more sensitive ? Anyhow, it 
jars terribly. But who am / to criticize — what should I have 



OUR BOYS 13 

been but for his generosity — his Bah ! Ignorant — H-less 

as he is, I'd sooner have him for a father than twenty stuck-up 
Sir Geoffry Champneys. 

Mid. {coming down l. of table ; sitting). And now, Charley, 
that we're alone, my dear fellow, tell your old dad what your 
impressions of foreign parts were. (Char, sits r. of table ; 
moves his chair a little forivard.) When I was your age 
the Continent was a sealed book to them as wasn't wealthy. 
There was no Cook's excursions then, Charley; leastaways, 
they seldom went further than White Condick Gardens or 
Beulah Spor, when they in general come back with their bon- 
nets a one side, and wep' when they was spoke to 'arsh. No, 
no, you've been born when there was the march o' intellect, 
and Atlantic cables and other curious things, and naturally 
you've benefited thereby. So of course you're a scholar, and 
seen a deal. Paris now — nice place, ain't it? 

Char. Glorious 1 

Mid. 'Ow about the 'orse flesh? 

Char. A myth. 

Mid. Railly though ! And I suppose frogs is fallacies. 
Only to think. 

Char. Paris is a paradise. But Italy — well, there ! 

Mid. But ain't it a mass of lazeyroneys? 

Char. A mere libel. A land of romance, beauty, tradi- 
tion, poetry ! Milan ! Venice ! Verona ! Florence ! 

Mid. Where the He comes from. 

Char. Rome ! Naples ! 

Mid. That's where Vesoovius is, ain't it ? 

Char. Yes. 

Mid. Was it ^^fizzin' " when you was there, Charley? 

Char. No. There was no eruption when I was there. 

Mid. That's wrong, you know, that's wrong; I didn't 
limit you, Charley; I said '<See everything," and I certainly 
expected as you'd insist upon an eruption. 

Char. But, my dear dad, I saw everything else — Pompeii 
and Herculaneum. 

Mid. Eh ? 

Char. Pompeii and Herculaneum — they were ruinedy you 
know. 

Mid. Two unfortnit Italian warehousemen, I suppose. 

Char. Nonsense ! They were buried, you remember. 

Mid. And why not ? It'd be a pretty thing to refuse an 
unlucky firm as went broke a decent 



14 OUR BOYS 

Char. You don't understand. 

Mid. {bluntly). No, I don't. 

Char. But Germany, dad — the Rhine — ^*the castle crags 
of Drachenfels " — the Castle of Erhenbreitstein 

Mid. Aaron who ? Some swell German Jew, I suppose. 

Char. And the German women. 

Mid. Charles, Tm i-^r/r/^^^. I'm simply — a What 

are they like, Charley? 

{Gets closer to him \ moves chair across front of table.) 

Char, {sighing). Hah ! 

Mid. Lost your heart, eh ? 

Char. Not to a German girl, oh no — the lady / met 
who 

Sir G. {heard without). Well, we may as well join our 
friends. 

(Mid. and Char, rise. Mid. puts chair baclz; goes up l.) 

Char, {aside). Here's Talbot's delightful father. I wouldn't 
swop parents with him for all his high breeding. Our heart's 
blood's a trifle cloudy, perhaps, but it flows freely — his is so 
terribly pure it hardly takes the trouble to trickle. No, Talbot, 
old fellow, I don't envy you your father. 

{Goes up L., a7id joins Mid.) 

Enter Sir G,y followed by Tal., c. and^. 

Sir G. {coming down^ r.). But really, Talbot, you must 
have some ideas on what you have seen. 

Tal. What's the use of having ideas, when you can pick 
*em up in the guide-books ? 

Sir G. {pleased). Ah, then you are fond of reading? 
Good. 

Tal. Reading ! Ha ! ha ! I hate it. {Sits, r. of table,) 

Sir G. {sitting on sofa^ r. ; trying to excuse him). Well, 
well, perhaps some fathers set too great a value on books. 
After all, one's fellow man is the best volume to study. And 
as one who I hope may ripen into a statesman — your general 
appearance strongly reminds me of Pitt, by-the-bye — perhaps 
you are right. 

Mid. {asidcy to Char.). Finest you ever saw. Sir Geoffry, 
we shall be back shortly. 

Exit, L. D., with Char. 



OUR BOYS 15 

Sir G. And you actually saw nothing in the Rhine. 
Tal. Oh, yes, 1 did. 
Sir G. That's well. 
Tal. No end of mud. 

Sir G. But Cologne now ? „ t. 1 t 

Tal. Famous for its Cathedral and Us smells. Both, 1 re- 
gret to say, unfinished. 

Sir G. But Germany, generally ? 
Tal. Detestable. , 

SirG. Switzerland. Come, you were a long tmie there. 
There you saw nature in all its grandeur. Your Alpine expe- 
rien«s *^^^ — _^^,^ li^^ited. I admired those venturesome 
beings who risked their necks, but it was at a distance. 1 can t 
say a respectful distance for 1 thought them fools 

Sir G; No doubt you were right. {Aside.) Prudence, 
caution, forethought— excellent qualities. {To htm.) Italy ? 

Tal Secondhand sort of country. Things, as a rule, give 
vou a notion of being unredeemed pledges Everything old 
Za cracked. Didn't care for it. Jolly glad to get_ to Pans. 
Sir G. (with a relish). Ha ! The Louvre, eh ? 
Tal. Yes. I preferred " Mabille." 
SirG. A /«M<: building ? 
Tal Rather. But even Paris palls on a fellow. 
Sir G. (rising and taking his hand). I see, Talbot, like a 
true Champneys you prefer your native land to all these mere- 
tricious fordgn places. Well, dear boy, you ve a g brious 
career before you, and it only rests with you to follow it up. i 

have arranged a marriage (^Crosses l. c.) 

Tal (rising). A what ! . 

Sir G. (l. c). Not arranged it exactly, but it can be ar- 
ranged — shall ht. r»u<»io,i., 
Tal (auietly). Provided, of course, I approve of the lady. 
Sir G. Eh ! You approve ! What have you got to do 

""tal.^ Quite as much as she has, and rather more than you, 
considering /should have to live with her and ^'.^ Tntked uo 

Sir G. \annoyed). Talbot, I'm afraid you have picked up 
some low Radical opinions during your residence abroad^ I 
expect obedience. 1 have done all a father ^an for a son 
You will wed, sir, as /wish; you will espouse my politicb, be 
returned for Lufton by wjv influence, and 

Tal. Unless Charley Middlewick chooses to stand' 



l6 OUR BOYS 

Sir G. {in horror), Charley Middlewick chooses to stand ? 

Tal. In which case I 

SirG. Yes? 

Tal. Should sit down, {Sits down r. of table,) 

Sir G. (l. c). Talbot Champneys, you surprise me — you 
wound me. You have received every advantage that money 
could procure — you have come back after your lengthened for- 
eign experiences, not — I must admit w4th pain — not what I 
quite expected. {Sits l. of table,) Possibly 1 looked for too 
much, but surely it was not an extravagant hope to indulge in 
that you would obey me in the one important step in a man's 
life — his marriage. The lady I have selected is wealthy, young, 
and handsome. She is on a visit to your aunt, so you will 
have ample opportunity for ingratiating yourself. You will 
not thwart me in this, my dear Talbot? {Takes his hand,) 

Tal. {rising). Well, before promising anything you must 
trot her out. 

Sir G. Trot her out ? 

Tal. Yes, yes, put her through her paces — let's judge of 
her points. You don't expect a fellow to buy a pig in a poke? 

{To R.) 

Sir G. {rising). Hem ! {Aside,) Very remarkable lan- 
guage. If anybody else spoke so, I should say it was vulgar, 
but 7ny son/ It's — ha! ha! — eccentricity; his great-uncle 
Joseph was eccentric — he 

{Looks aside at Tal., a?id sighs deeply. Goes up l. c.) 

Tal. (r., aside). Married whether I like it or not. Not if 
I know it. I'm going to **go it" a bit before /settle down. 
I have gone it a bit already, and I'm going to *'go it" a bit 
more. It's the governor's fault ; he shouldn't have mapped out 
my career with compass and rule. A man's not an express 
train, to be driven along a line of rails and never allowed to 
shunt on his own account. There's Charley's father let him 
have his fling and no questions asked. The governor's had his 
hobby — let him pay for it — he can do it. 

(Clar. has entered, spoken briefly aside to Sir G., and comes 
down ; sits r. of table beside Tal.) 

Clar. {sitting r. c). Talbot, it is so delightful to have you 
back again. I shall now have such charming evenings with 
you at chess. 



OUR BOYS 17 

Tal. {sitting on sofa). At what ? 

Clar. Chess — the king of games. 

Tal. Do you call it a game ? Ha ! ha ! No, thankee ; 
life's too short for chess. 

Clar. Well, well, we'll say backgammon. 

Tal. I don't mind sayi?ig backgammon, but you don't catch 
me playing backgammon. 

Clar. Well, then, we must even continue our usual cozy 
evenings. / do my wool-work whilst your papa reads us the 
debates. That's our regular evening's programme. 

Tal. (aside). They must have had a rollicking time of it. 
The debates ! a dozen columns of dullness filtered through your 
father. Not for Talbot. 

Clar. But now we have music. Miss Melrose plays charm- 
ingly. Do you like music ? 

Tal. Ye-e-s. I don't like pieces, you know — five-and- 
twenty minutes of fireworks. I like anything with a good 
chorus. 

Clar. Ah, so does Miss Melrose's cousin. 

Sir G. (coming down l. c, at Clar., to stop her). He-hem ! 
He-hem ! 

Clar. (rising ; Sir G. down l. j Clar. to him, aside), I 
forgot. 

Tal. (seated on sofa; suspiciously, aside). Halloa! why 
did he make that elaborate but utterly ineffective attempt to 
cough down the cousin ? (Looks at Sir G. afid Clar.) I see 
it all at a glance. The heiress is to be flung at my head, not 
the cousin at my heart. Future, luck, destiny, and all the lot 
of you, I see my fate. I marry that cousin. 

Sir G. {aside to Clar.). Mary Melrose, the cousin, must 
be sent away. 

Clar. (aside). But she won't go. 

Sir G. Talbot is a— Talbot is a — — 

Clar. Talbot's a fool. 

Sir G. (jifounded, yet proud). Clarissa Champneys, Talbot 
is my son. 

Clar. Geoffry Champneys, Talbot is my fiephew, I only 
wish I could exchange him for young Mr. Middlewick. 

Sir G. You irritate me — you incense me — go to the deuce, 
Clarissa ! 

Clar. Ha! ha! (^Crosses r. c.) Come along, Talbot; 
let's go and see Mr. Middlewick's pigs, perhaps M^j^'// interest 
you. 



l8 OUR BOYS 

Tal. {has been taking out a large cigar). You don't mind 

my smoking ? 
Clar. Not a bit. 

Tal. D'ye think the pigs'U object? {Rises,) 
Clar. {aside). He's an idiot. {Goes up c) 
Tal. {aside). She's a nuisance. {Up to her,) Tell us 

all about the cousi?i, 

{They go out c. to l.) 

Sir G. Of course women can never hold their tongues. Mary 
Melrose is pretty — penniless though. Mischievous too as a 
girl can well be. And no taste — goes to sleep when I read the 
debates. Wakes up when it's time to say ** good-night," and 
wants to play billiards. A very dangerous young woman. 

{Goes up c. Violet Melrose heard without^ c. and r.) 

Vio. Now, Mary, you must promise to behave yourself, or 
you shall not come out with me again. 

Sir G. {up c). That's Violet, that's the heiress — and of 
course her cousin Mary with her. Confound it ! They're as 
inseparable as — I'll try and walk off Talbot. He must see and 
love Miss Melrose. Yes, why not ** love " ? My father com- 
manded me to love, and I was too dutiful a son not to obey him 
on the instant. I loved madly — to order. 

Exit hastily y l. d. 

Enter Vic, c. from r. 

Vio. Where can they have got to? {Goes down R.) 

Enter Mary Melrose — the poor cousin — both are dressed in 
the best taste. 

Mary {up l. c). What a handsome place. Looks awfully 
new though, doesn't it ? Seems as if it was painted and dec- 
orated yesterday, and furnished in the middle of the night — in 
order to be ready for visitors this morning. I seem to smell 
the hay and sacking that enveloped the legs of the chairs and 
tables. Don't 7^^, Violet? {Down l. c.) 

Vio. Certainly not, Mary, don't make remarks. 

{Sits on sofa,) 
Mary. Why not? I like to make remarks. {Looks about,) 



OUR BOYS 19 

Vio. Yes, you like to do a great many things you shouldn't do. 

Mary. So does every one. If one's always to do what's 
proper and correct, life might as well be all rice pudding and 
toast and water. I hate them bothy they're so dreadfully 
wholesome. 

Vio. {rising arid crossing to table), I don't know what ex- 
cuse we shall make for coming here. It looks as if we were 
impatient to see the young men. 

Mary. So we are. At least I am. We've seen no one of 
the male sex at old Champneys'. 

Vio. Mary ! 

{Both sit, Vio. R. of table. Mary l. of table.) 

Mary. Begging his pardon. Sir Geoffry Champneys' — 
Bart — no one, under the age of fifty. 

Vio. Why, Mary, there's Mr. Sedative, he isn't thirty. 

Mary. Oh, Sedative's a curate and don't count. Besides, 
he blushes when you speak to him, and, altogether, he's a 
muff. He's awfully good and devoted to his mother and all 
that, but — well, there, he isn't my sort. 

Vio. I don't know who is your sort, Mary. 

Mary. Oh, it's all very well for youy you know; you can 
pick and choose — if you haven't picked and chosen. 

Vio. Mary, you — how can you ? 

Mary. Violet, my dear, don't try to impose upon me, I 
know the impression young Morton made upon your suscep- 
tible heart. I tried hard to ensnare him, but you beat me. 
Oh, you quiet ones, I wouldn't trust you out of my sight — 
{rising ; aside) or in it for the matter of that. {Goes up L. c.) 

Vio. You're always thinking of love and marriage and all 
that nonsense. 

Mary {doivn to back of table). Of course I am. There's 
nothing else worth thinking about. It's all very well ior you — 
you're rich, and you have your tenants, and your pensioners, 
and your dependents, and I don't know whaty to interest you. 
I've nothing. {Sighs.) I wish I was rich. 

Vio. Then marry some one with money. 

Mary. Never ! {After a slight pause.) Unless he's nice^ 
then I will — oh, yes, I don't go in for 'Move in a cottage." I 
never could understand the theory of ^^ bread and cheese and 
kisses." I hate bread and cheese. 

Vio. {with admonitory finger). And 

Mary {sighing^. I know nothing about the rest. 



20 OUR BOYS 

{Goes down l. c.) 

Vio. (rising). You mercenary girl. Mark me, you'll marry 
a rich man. 

Mary. Certainly — if I like him. 

Vio. But as for a poor one ? 

Mary. I'll marry him if I Hke him better. (^Goes up L.) 

Vio. {crossing r.). I can't make you out; you're simply 

the most 

Enter Char., quickly, c. from l. 

Mary {up l. ; aside), Morton ! 

Char, {going down r, c). Why, Miss Melrose! 

Vio. Oh, can I be — — {Sinks into sofa,) 

Mary {going down l. c). If anybody 'd catch me I think 
I could faint. {Crosses to Q,^ front of table,) 

Char. Let me. {Catches her in his arms,) My dear 
Miss Melrose, I 

Vio. {rising ; recovering suddenly). Mr. Morton ! 

Char. Miss Melrose ! {Leaves Mary afid goes to Vio.) 
Can I — can I believe my eyes ? What are you doing here ? 

Vio. What are you doing here ? 

(Mary crosses at back to back of sofa,) 

Char. (c). Morton isn't my name. I assumed it at Bonn, 
like a fool, because of a scrape I got into with an offensive and 
warlike student, which resulted in his being rather severely 
wounded — an insolent hound. No, I've come back here to my 
home, to my father. {Crosses l.) 

Vio. {aside, romantically). Come back to his father, to his 
home ! Mary, is — is this destiny ? 

{Sits on sofa, looking up at Mary.) 

Mary {back of sofa ; aside to her). \i it is destiny, dear, 
don't you think Fd better go away for a short time ? 
Vio. No, no, Mary, don't go, by any means. 
Mary. I wouldn't dream of such a thing. 

Exit, c. and r. 

Char. (l.). Life's made up of surprises. Only to think 
of meeting you here. 

Vio. You took no particular trouble to find out where to 
meet me, did you ? 



OUR BOYS iLt 

Char, (to l. c). You left Vienna so abruptly. You 
wouldn't have had me advertise ? 

Vio. Really ! 

Char. Lost, stolen, or strayed, a young lady, etc., etc. 
Any one restoring her to her disconsolate admirer, Charles — 
a ( Crosses to Vio. ) 

Vio. (rising), Mr. Morton, upon my word, I 

Char, {ardently). And upon my word this is the happiest 
moment of my life; no, it's run hard by the other moment, 
when under the shadow of the trees, with the wild river rush- 
ing at our feet, you half — half whispered a word or two that 
led me to hope. Oh, Violet, I swear by — by — by those eyes — 
and what could a man swear by truer — or, bluer — I've never 
ceased to think of you, to drea?n of you 

Vio. To dream of me? What, not when you've been 
awake ? 

Char. I've never been awake; life, since we parted, has 
been one long sweet siesta in which your image was ever fore- 
most. The chief cause, the only cause of my hastening home 
was to search you out. I knew your wandering ways, and 
meant to track you. You said you intended staying the sum- 
mer at Biarritz. But fortune has favored me as she never yet 
favored man and placed the prize in my arms. 

Vio. (^pleased, but trying to be severe). In where ? 

Char, (throwing his arm round her). There ! 

(Slight pause.) 

Vio. Mr. Morton, I'm ashamed of you. 

Char. Miss Melrose, Vm proud oi you. 

Vio. Really, I 

Char. You wouldn't have me think you a flirt — a coquette ? 

Vio. Indeed, no. 

Char. You would be one if when you breathed those half- 
dozen delicious words, you only meant to trifle with me. I've 
lived upon that sentence ever since — looking ardently forward 
to the day when I could present myself in propria persona as I 
do now. Violet, don't turn away, for 

(Sir G. coughs without.) 

Vio. (^rather agitated). There's somebody coming. 
Char. Confound it ! in this life there always is somebody 
coming. (Goes up, r.) 



^1 OUR BOYS 

Sir G. (entering). I can't find him — he isn't with the 
pigs. {Comes down c. To Vio.) I regret that my son 

Vio. (r.). Why, Sir Geoffry — you must have intended it 
as a wicked surprise. Your son and I are acquainted. 

(Char, crosses l. at back.') 

Sir G. (c). Has he, then, already 

Vio. Oh, before 

Sir G. Good gracious ! You must not mind his being a 
little bashful and retiring. 

Vio. Oh, I didn't find him so at all. 

Sir G. (aside). The deuce she didn't ! {Aloud.) Met 
before ? 

Vio. At Vienna. 

Sir G. Is it possible? And you don't — don't dislike him ? 

Vio. (r.). Ohy^ho could? 

Sir G. {aside). I can't believe my The young rascal ! 

all his opposition was assumed then — a deep, young dog. Ha ! 
ha ! Well, he took me in. Ha ! ha ! Yes, he took me in. 

Char, {coming down l.). I hope, Sir Geoffry, we shall 

Sir G. {€.). Yes, yes, young gentleman, all in good time, 
but just at present you see we 

Vio. (r.). 1 should like to hear, though, what your son 
was about to say. 

Sir G. (c, seeing with horror the mistake). My — my son ! 
This person — he's no son of mine. 

Char, (l., half aside). No — thank heaven ! 

Vio. {shrinking from hi7n ; bitterly). Twice an impostor ! 

Char, {to l. c). Violet, I 

(Sir G. goes to l. of Yio.) 

WARN curtain^ 

Enter l. d., Mid. and Clar. ; at c.y Mary and Tal. 

Mid. It's true, mum. Every one on 'em was agin me doing 
it. Halloa — who's the gals? [Comes down l.) 

{At hearing the intefisely vulgar voice ofMiT).f Vio. has shru/ik, 
and, evidently shocked y assumes a cold look. Char, per- 
ceives it, and by his expression shows he resents her man^ 
fiery a?id goes to his father.) 



OUR BOYS ^% 

Tal. {coming r. c. above table ; to Mary). D'ye know I 
feel as if I'd known you ever so long ! 

Mary. And Tve quite taken to you— fact 

(Sir G. , who has observed this with suppressed rage, takes 
Tal. by the arm, with a slight wrench, brings him to 
Vio., down R.) 

Char. (l. c, aside). I could read a volume in her altered 
look. 

Sir G. This, Violet, is — is my son / 

Char, {crossing, seizi?ig Mid.'s hand with a grasp of affec- 
tion ; proudly). And this, Miss Melrose, is my father ! 

RING curtain* 

(Mid. , with hand extended, starts across towardYio,, who draws 
herself up coldly and turns her back on him. Mid. stops 
suddenly, dismayed, and exclaims, ^^ By George,*^ as drop 
descends,) 



ACT DROP 



ACT II 



Scene. — Drawing-room at Sir G.'s. Doors r. andi.,, and 
large door C. back, opening upon a cofiservatory. Statuary 
betiveen door and windows at back ; fireplace with mirror 
over it down r., with chair at ^, of it ; small divafi down 
c. ; armchair down r. c, and sofa down L. ; chairs at L. 
and up R., near window.) 

LIGHTS full up- 

(Kemp, discovered.) 

Kemp. Well, things are coming to a pretty pass when we 
have such visitors to dinner as Mr. Middlewick, senor. Three 
'elps to soup, and his napkin tucked round his neck for all the 
world like a carver at a cafe — a common cafe, {Down,) 
And yet, somehow, I fancy his 'art's in the right place. I know 



24 OUR BOYS 

his 'and is — that's his pocket — a precious deal oftener than the 
governor's. I've heard, too, as the servants at his place are 
fed on the fat of the l^nd. Hem ! Z£/^ ain't. There's a deal 
too much show here. Three mutton cutlets for four people, 
who've the consolation of knowing the dishes is 'all marked, 
though when a party's hungry silver ain't satisfying. 

Enter Sir G. and Mid., from door l., in evening dress. 
MiD.'s a little old-fashioned and extravagant — large ^ dou- 
ble-breasted white waistcoat and plenty of necktie. He has 
a large napkin tied around his neck or sticki?ig in his 
collar. 

Sir G. Yes, yes, Mr. Middlewick, you are perfectly right. 
{To Kemp.) Send our coffee in here. 

Kemp, {crossing to door l. ; aside). They're a-gettin' thick, 
they're a-gettin' uncommon thick. 

Exit, L. D. 

Sir G. (r. c). You enjoyed your dinner? {Sits c.) 

Mid. {sitting on sofa, "L.). Fust-rate. Hd^y one. 

Sir G. Good ! And you don't mind leaving your wine for 
a chat ? 

Mid. Not a bit. Can't abear claret, and port pays me out. 
I never knew what gout was when I had my shop. 

Sir G. He-hem ! 

Mid. (aside). He always shies at the shop. Well, I won't 
tread on his aristocratic corns ; it ain't fair, for after all, they re 
tender, and Fm 'eavy. 

Sir G. I'm delighted, Mr. Middlewick, to welcome under 
my roof so successful a representative of the commercial spirit 
of the age. Champneys Hall, as a rule, has been honored by 
the visits of people of birth solely. Your presence here is a 
pleasing exception. 

Mid. {rising). Sir Geoff ry, you do me /zonor. Of course 
money's always a 

Sir G. Not wholly. I anticipate your remark. Personal 
work must count for something. 

Mid. (l. c). Fust-rate theory — phy\di\-\tro\>\c and all that — 
but it don't wash, Sir Geoffry. Take yourself, for inc^tance. 
When you stroll about 'ere, everybody you meet touches his 'at. 
How many does so when you walks down Fleet Street ? 

Sir G. Everybody touches his hat to you, Mr. Middlewick. 



OUR BOYS 25 

Mid. Not a bit of it. See here ; thafs what they touches 
their *ats to. {Slaps his pocket, which rattles with the sound 
of money, ^ Money makes the mare to go — the mare — rubbish ! 
It sets the whole stable a-gallopin' ! If I go into a shop shabby 
the counter-skipper treats me familiar, pre-aps 'aughty. If I 
wear new broadcloth he calls me **Sir.'' There you 'ave it 
in a nutshell. 

Sir G. Mr. Middlewick, I admit that money exercises an 
undue influence in the world and to an extent with vulgar — I 
repeat, vulgar minds — elbows birth, worth, virtue, and — a — 
all that sort of thing a little out of the way. That is why so 
many of us — I say us — live in the country, where — where 

Mid. Jes' so. / know. You're somebody 'ere — nobody 
there. Quite right ; that's why /settled in the country. 

Sir G. Your career has been a remarkable one. 

Mid. Extry-ordinary. I was lucky from a baby. {Sits L. 
of Sir G., on seat c.) Found a farden when I was two years 
old, and got a five-shilling piece for 'olding a 'orse when I was 
playing truant at the age of six. When I growed up everything 
I touched turned up trumps. i^He slaps Sir G. on knee. He 
does this frequently to emphasize a point much to Sir G.'s dis- 
gust.^ 1 believe if I'd purchased a ship-load of Dutch cheeses, 
the man with the van *ud 'a' delivered me Stiltons. 1 believe 
as the Government went to war a purpose to give me a openin' 
for contracks. Bacon! {Slap.^ Well, there — bless your 'art, 
what I made out of bacon alone was a little independence. I 
never meet a pig in the road that I don't feel inclined to take 
off my 'at to him. 

Sir G. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mid. Every speculation proved a success. It seemed as if 
I was in the secret of life's lucky bag, and had been put up to 
where I was to pick out the prizes. Some folks said, ** 'Old 
'ard, Perkyn, my boy, you'll run aground." Well, I didn't 
*' 'old 'ard," I '' 'eld on," and here I am, Sir Geoffry, at the 
age of fifty-three able to buy up any 'arf a dozen nobs in the 
county. {^Continuous slaps. ^ 

Sir G. {aside^. Nobs ! He is a pill for all his gilding. 

Mid. But if I'm not a gentleman, there's my boy. 

Sir G. Who, I have a sort of suspicion, admires Violet 
Melrose. 

Mid. What ! The stuck-up rich gal. No ! no ! 

Sir G. {eagerly^. You think ;?^/ .? 

Mid, Certain. My son knows better than to thwart me^ 



26 OUR BOYS 

Miss Melrose snubbed me when we fust met — ^has cold-shoul- 
dered me ever since. Do you suppose my boy Charley would 
have anything to say to a young woman as despised his father? 

Sir G. {shaking hands). My dear Middlevvick, you delight 
me. Of course not. I was foolishly suspicious. I want my 
son to marry Miss Melrose. He will do so of course — for he 
has never disobeyed me ; he has been brought up strictly to 
acknowledge my authority, and 

Mid. And won't, I'll warrant. Your system's a mistake — 
mine's the correct one. I've always given my boy hi-s fling — 
never balked him from a baby. If he cried for the moon we 
give him a Cheshire cheese immediate — that being the nearest 
substitute 'andy. Now he'd obey my slightest wish. 

Sir G. Will he ! Ha ! ha ! Let us hope so. 

Enter Vio. from l. 
Vio. {crossings, c). Interrupting a tete-d-tete^ Tm afraid. 
(Mid. rises.) 

Sir G. {rising, crosses and offers chair, r., to Vio. ; she 
sits, R.). Not at all, Miss Melrose. 

Mid. Oh, no, not at all — not at all. {Crosses l. to sofa,) 
**Taturtate " — always coming out with her /talian. Ha, she's 
not a patch upon the cousin ; she's the gal for my money. 

{Lies down. Covers face with napkin,) 

Sir G. (r. c; aside in an undertone to Vio.). Miss Mel- 
rose — may I say Violet — I trust Talbot's manner, modest as it 
is, has impressed you. You must not take him for the foo — I 
mean you mustn't imagine he is the less ardent because he 
doesn't talk poetry like young Mr. Middlewick, or 

Vio. {seated K, ; with temper). Oh, don't mention him. Sir 
Geoffry — that young gentleman seems to ignore my existence. 

Sir G. {aside). Good. Son sees father's snubbed and re- 
taliates. [To her,) Ha! ha! do you know — pardon my 
absurdity — at first I actually imagined there was some trifling 
tenderness in that quarter. But I see by your face I was mis- 
taken. You are above being dazzled by good looks. 

Vio. {with a natural burst). And he is good-looking, isn't 
he? 

Sir G. {yt^.Q., a little haughtily). He — hem! He's /^;/^ — 
but nothing distingue — Talbot now is not what one would call 



OUR BOYS 27 

a striking figure, but there's a concealed intellectuality — a 
hidden something or other — you'll understand what I mean 
but Tm at a loss for the word at the moment — that is none 
the less effective in the long run — (with pleasant earnestness) 
a — then, my dear Violet, he's the heir to a baronetcy. He's 
an embyro statesman, and he adores you. Didn't you observe 
him at dinner ? He ate nothing — drank nothing — which — 
and I say it at the risk of being considered a too observant 
host — is more than can be said of young Middlewick. 

(^During Sir G.'s speech Mid. occasio7ially snores. When 
Char.'s voice is heard he sits up,) 

Vio. (aside). That's true, for I watched him. 

Char, {heard without , L.). Ha ! ha ! ha ! You play bil- 
liards ! why, you know as much of the game as the King of 
Ashanti knows of 

Tal. (heard l.). Ha ! ha ! Play you any day in the 
week. 

Mid. (risings crosses to c, throwing napkin dozvn), I say, 
Sir Geoffry, them boys are going it, ain't they? 

Vio. {aside), " Them boys ! " 

Mid. {crossing to l. ; aside), I see her sneer. 

Sir G. {aside). Every time he opens his mouth improves 
Talbot's chance. 

Enter Char, and Tal. followed by Clar. Char, is a little 
excited with wine, but not in the least tipsy — he has been 
helping himself freely to drotvn his annoyafice at Vio.'s 
hauteur and evident horror of his father, Tal. 's manner 
is of the same washed-out, flabby 7iature as previously 
shown. Mid. goes around sofa up l. 

Char. (c. by seat). Ha ! ha ! ha ! Here's Talbot Champ- 
neys trying to argue with me about billiards. Why, man, you 
can't see as far as the spot ball. 

Sir G. (r. c). The fact of being short-sighted is scarcely 
a happy subject for jesting. 

{Crosses to r. to back t?/* Vio.'s chair,) 

Vio. (r., with suppressed temper), I quite agree with you, 
Sir Geoffry. 

Clar. {has entered down l. c). It's aristocratic ; double 
eye-glasses look rather distingue, I think. (Sits on sofa, l.) 



28 OUR BOYS 

Char, (c, at Vio.). Yes, those who are not aristocratic 
may sometimes suffer from the affection. There are short- 
sighted fools in the world who are not swells. 

Vio. {aside). He thinks that severe. 

Mid. {down l. c). Bless your 'art, yes; we had a carman 
as was always driving into everythink ; at last he run over a 
boy in the Boro', and that got him his quietum. 

Char, {crossing to Mid.). Yes, yes, you told us before 
about him. 

Mid. {aside). Don't, Charley, don^t. If you only brought 
me out to shut me up, I might as well be a tellyscoop. 

( Goes lip I.,) 

Sir G. {aside to Vic). Charming papa-in-law he'll make 
to somebody. 

Vio. Don't, don't. {Looks at Char., tvho is l. c.) He's 
looking daggers at me, and I've done nothing. 

Tal. {sitting on r. of c. seaf). It's rather rich your talking 
of beating me at billiards, considering that I've devoted the 
last three years to billiards and nothing else. 

Sir G. {aside). The deuce he has ! That's pleasant for a 
father to hear. Oh, a — -exaggeration. {Goes up r.) 

Tal. It's rather amusing your bragging of rivalling me. 
And when you talk about my not being able to see the spot 
ball, all I can say is 

Char. (l. c). Ha ! ha ! ha ! If you ca7i't, you've a capital 
eye for iki^ pocket, {At Vio. Vio. shows she sees the thrust.') 

Mid. {coming down L. of Char.). Ah, well, bagatelle' s 
more in my way. When me and a few neighbors used to take 
our glass at the Peterboro' Arms, we 

Char. Yes, yes, father {Goes up l.) 

Mid. {aside). He's bit. That gal's bit him. It'll be an 
awkward day for Charley when he shows he's ashamed of his 
governor. 

Clar. {seated l.). I agree with Mr. Middlewick — baga- 
telle's charming. 

Vio. So it is, Miss Champneys. 

Clar. So innocent. 

Sir G. {down r. c). Come, who's for a game of billiards 
then ? I never touch a cue, but I'll play you fifty up, Mr. 
Middlewick, and my sister here and your son shall see all fair. 
Come, you shall see that there is even a worse player in the 
world than yourself. {Aside.) There couldn't be a better 



OUR BOYS 29 

opportunity for leaving Talbot and Violet alone. (7!:? him,') 
What say ? 

Mid. (l. c). I'm agreeable — you must teach me though. 

Clar. (rising). I will do that, if you will allow me. 

Mid. (offering his arm to Clar.) Only too 'appy. 

(Goes off, R. D., with Clar.) 

Sir G. (aside to Tal.). Now's your time, bring matters to 
a crisis. 

Vio. (rising J takes Sir G.'s arm the other side). Sir 
Geoffry, Tll back you. 

Sir G. (aside). Confound it! (l^oYio., going toward r. 
door with her.) You really are most — a — I can't play a bit 

(^As they exit Vio. gives a sort of half sneering, half mischie- 
vous laugh at Char., ivho can with difficulty restrai?i his 
afinoyance. When they are off, he comes down l. and 
crosses to c, meeting Tal., who has risen on Vio.'s exit 
and crossed r. taking out pipe and filling it and tJien 
crossing back to c. where he comes face to face with Char.) 

Char. (c. l.). Well. 

Tal. (c. r.). Well. 

Char. What are you going to do? 

Tal. What are you ? 

Char. I don't know. 

Tal. I do. I'm going to have a smoke m the stable. Also 
a good think. 

Char. A good what ? 

Tal. Think. I'm in love. 

Char. You f 

Tal. Why shouldn't I be? You tall chaps always think 
you can monopolize all the love-making in the world. You 
can love short, just the same as you can love long. I tell you 
Fm gone. D'ye hear ? Gone. 

Char, (bitterly). I'm happy to hear it. I shall be happier 
when yon prove the fact. {Moves away, l.) 

Tal. I'm off. When you want a weed you know where to 
find me. 

Exit, c. to R. 

Char, (sitting c). In love, is he? I don't wonder at it — 
she'd entice a hermit from his cell — and — and — send him back 



30 OUR BOYS 

sold. She can't have a heart. (Enter ^k^\ from l.) Ah, 
women are all alike. 

Mary (l. c, back of seat). What a frightful observation! 
And at the top of your voice, too. 

Char. I mean it. 

Marv. No, you don't. 

Char. If I don't may I be 

Mary {crossing 'r. c, back of seat). Jilted? 

Char, {rising to h. c). Jilted. The foolish phrase for one 
of the cruelest crimes — 1 say it advisedly, crimes — that can dis- 
grace /<f;;;^/^ — I won't say human — nature. {Goes up L.) 

Mary {back of seat ). Dear ! dear ! dear ! 

Char. {ciow7i l. c. ; with feeling ). Hearts are not play- 
things to be broken like children's drums just to see what's in- 
side them. A man's feelings are not toys to be trifled with and 
tossed aside. Love in a true man means love — love pure and 
simple and unselfish — the devotion of his whole mind and being 
to one in whose weal or woe his very soul's wrapped up. With 
women {Sits on sofa, l. ) 

Mary {back of seat c). What a pity it is Talbot Champ- 
neys can't talk like you — and going into Parliament, too. 

Char. Talbot Champneys — yes — his relatives are well- 
spoken, well-born somebodies, and so she favors him. 

Mary. She? Who? 

Char. Absurd ! there's only one she. 

Mary. That's very polite to me, I'm sure. 

Char. Oh, you know what I mean. In my eyes. 

Mary. Exactly. But you don't monopolize all the visua 
organs of the universe. There are other eyes that may hav( 
looked elsewhere. 

Char. Why, what on earth 

Mary {inodestly), I don't think Talbot does admire Violet 

Char. Eh ? 

Mary. Not so much as he does — a — somebody else. 

Char. Why, who is there he could 

Mary. Well, upon my word — considering that / 

{Pauses awkwardly,^ 

Char. Why, what a fool I've been ! {Rises.) 

Mary. And are. 

Char. But — oh, impossible ! 

Mary {to front of seat). Thank you. 



OVR BOYS 31 

Char. No, I don't mean that, because, of course, you are 
a charming young lady, and 

Mary. Thank you again. {Sits c.) 

Char, {crossing to her), I mean it's impossible on your 
side. I really believe Talbot to be not half a bad fellow in the 
main, but his manner, his appearance, and 

Mary. Oh, handsome men are like the shows at the fairs, 
you see all the best outside. 

Char. There's some truth in that, perhaps. 

Mary. Talbot Champneys isn't either the fool he looks or 
affects to be. He's wonderfully good-hearted, I ktiow, for I 
watched his manner only yesterday toward a crippled beggar 
boy when he thought no one saw him ; and — and he snubs his 
pompous old father like a — like a 

Char. A young cub. {Moves to l.) 

Mary. Well, a young cub's better than an old bear. I 
don't believe in surface — 1 Hke to know what's inside. You've 
often noticed confectioners' tarts, with their proud upper-crust 
— hollow mockeries — delusive shams ; when the knife dives into 
their dim recesses what does it disclose? Fruit, occasionally ; 
syrup, seldom; flavor, fiever. Now, Talbot's «t?/ a confection- 
er's tart ! 

Char. No, I should say he was more of the cake, 

Mary {rising). Never mind, I like cake. He may be ec- 
centric, but his heart's in the right place. 

Char. That means j/^//'z/<? got it. (^Crosses to her,) 

Mary. He hasn't told me so. 

Char. Until you make him I 

Mary. Make him ! well, you are- 



Sir G. {heard "R.), Don't mention it — a trifle. 

Mid. [heard "r,), 'Pon my word, I'm downright 

Sir G. No, no ; not at all. 

Char, {earnestly). You will — you will make him declare 
himself, Mary Melrose, and make me the 

{They go up l. and sit at back,) 

Enter Sir G. and Mid. from r,, followed by Vie, whore- 
mains up R. Mid. has a billiard cue, Mary and Char, 
sit up L. 

Mid. {down c). I declare I wouldn't have done such a 
thing for any money. {Aside,) I knew I should come to grief 
at them billiards. 



32 OUR BOYS 

Sir G. (r. c, blandly). My dear Mr. Middlewick, com- 
monest thing with beginners. Cutting the billiard cloth with 
the cue is a trifling accident that might happen with any one. 
Don't mention it any more. {Aside.) An awkward brute. 
Treated the table like his confounded counter. 

Mid. (aside). Serves me right, trying to play billiards, and 
poker-back pretending he couldn't, and him all the time a reg- 
ular dab. (Crosses and stafids cue against wall, L.) He's 
up to these grand games, but one of these days I'll loore him 
on to skittles — and astonish him. (^Conies back c.) 

Sir G. (aside to Mid. ; drawing him to r. ; pleased). Mid- 
dlewick, look, my dear sir. (Points to Char, and Mary, in 
conversation up stage, l. ) D'ye see that ? Ha ! Ha ! Seem 
rather interested in each other's conversation, eh ? 

(Nudges him.) 

Mid. Why, anything more like spooning I 

Sir G. I hope, for your sake, it may be so ; that girl is 
worth a thousand of her haughty cousin. 

Mid. (seizing his hand). You're right, Sir Geoffry. And 
I'm proud to hear a swell as is a swell give vent to such senti- 
nients — they do you /^onor. ( Crosses to L. c. ) 

Vio. (up R., aside). He means to wound me — to insult me. 
Mary cannot willingly have lent herself to so mean and poor a 

trick. She is honest — but he (Enter Clar. from r. ; 

goes to Mid. ; after speaking a moment they sit c. ; Mid., l. 
and Clar., r. Sir G. has gone to r., and is watching Char. 
and Mary with pleasure.) How taken up with each other 
they seem. There isn't an atom of jealousy about my disposi- 
tion, but I'd give the world io know what they're talking about. 
(Char, and Mary laugh.) Now they're laughing. Perhaps 
at me. Oh, how I wish Mary wasn't poor — I'd have such a 
quarrel with her. 

(Sits R. at back. After a pause Sir G. joins her,) 

Mid. (seated c, l. of Ci^ar. ; aside; has been talking with 
Clar.). A more sensible woman I never come across. 

Clar. (aside). A delightful person if 2. little eccentric. 

Mid. (aside). I'll find out what she thinks of my sentiments 
regarding Charley's fancy. 

Clar. (aside). I hope his evident attentions to me have not 
been noticed by my brother. 

Mid. (seated by her). Miss Clarissa — nice name Clarissa. 



OUR BOYS 33 

Clar. (coquettishly). Think so? 

Mid. Yes — I wouldn't change it for no other. Your other 
name I would though. 

Clar. (aside). What can he mean ? These successful com- 
mercial people are so blunt and businesslike — can he possibly 

be about to (JSighs,) Well, I must say I consider him 

rather a fine man. 

Sir G. {up r., to Vic, who has been and is watching Mary 
and Char. Sir G. has sat beside her,) Depend upon it, ill- 
assorted marriages are a mistake. For instance, we'll say, 
young Middlewick there — the poor lad's in a false position. 

Vio. (aside, i?i temper). He is — sitting by her. 

Sir G. a husband's relations, too, should not be ignored. 
Should the young man marry a lady, imagine her humiliation 
at the periodical visits of **Papa." 

Vio. (turning to hi7n, a little nettled). And yet you tol- 
erate him here — make much of him. 

Sir G. My dear Violet, in the country one is obliged to 
swallow one's feelings occasionally. I take good care no one 
shall ever meet him for whom I have the least — a — he-hem ! 
(^Aside,) Nearly putting my foot in it there. 

(Mid. and Clar. have been very earnestly conversing on seat c.) 

Mid. Of course — of course when people get to a certain 
time of life they ought to settle. 

(Char. andM.kR\ stroll off, c. andi.,) 

Clar. My sentiments precisely. 

Mid. And after all high birth's all very well, but if the other 
party has the money 

Clar. Certainly — certainly. It may be radical and all that 
sort of thing, but give me intellect before mere family. And I 
am worldly enough to revere success — such as yours, for 
instance. 

Mid. (aside). She certainly is one of the most sensible 
women I — and after all they'd make an uncommon handsome 
couple 

Clar. Eh ? 

Mid. Charley and 

Sir G. (coming down r. c, abruptly, and annoyed), Cla- 
rissa, my dear, where on earth has Talbot got to ? 

Clar. (risings crosses toward r. door ; enraged at dis- 



34 OUR BOYS 

covery of her mistake in Mid.). How should / know where 
he's got to ! 

Sir G. {astonished^. Why, gracious me ! My dear, I 

{Aside to her, but aloud?) Ilemember, Clarissa, if you please, 
there are visitors present. 

Clar. {at door fK,), Visitors indeed ! Such canaille ! 

Exit, R. 

Mid, {aside). 1 heard you, my lady. So the old one^s 
going in for snubs, too. {Rises.) I've been called almost 
everything before, but this is the fust time I've been called 
a canal. It's the last time me or Charley sets a foot in this 
'ouse. {Goes up l.) 

Vio. {ivho has gone up to conservatory ; looking off). How 
mean I feel, watching them. I'll — I'll leave this house to- 
morrow. {Comes down ; sits c.) 

Sir G. {near r. door, aside). What on earth's the matter 
with the woman ? Something's annoyed her, but she mustn't 
be rude to my guests. I have one system with my son, my 
servants, and — yes, and my sister. She must come back at 
once and Miss Melrose — Middlewick, excuse me a mo- 
ment or two. 

Exit, R. D. 

Mid. {up L.), All alone with Miss High-and-mighty ! 
Hang me if I don't tackle her ! {Comes down L. c.) You'll 
— you'll excuse me^ Miss, but 

Vio. {in horror). Oh, pray don't say <^Miss." 

M\Ti. {softened). Eh? {Aside.) Not ^' Miss"? {To her.) 
Well, then, we'll say ^' Voylet." 

Vio. {rising, disgusted, but unable to restrain her amuse- 
ment). Mr. Middlewick, you really are too absurd ! 

(MiD. goes up L. c. Vio. moves toward r. door and exits ; 
as she does so Char, enters, c.,from l., crosses r., and 
is about to follow her.) 

Mid. {aside). If ever I set foot again in this house 

{Catches Char, by the arm, and turns him round abruptly 
toward himself, bri?iging him down R. C.) 

Char. (r. c). Why, dad, I 

Mid. (c). Charley, where are you a-going of? 



OUR BOYS 35 



Char, {annoyed). Oh ! father, I really- 



Mid. {severely), Charles Middlewick, you're a-going after 
that young lady. 

Char. Well, sir, if I am ? 

Mid. Charley, I don't want you and me to fall out. We 
never have yet. All's been smooth and pleasant with me 
hitherto, but when I do cut up rough, Charley, I cut up that 
rough as the road a-being repaired afore the steam roller tackles 
it is simply a feather bed compared to your father. 
. Char. I don't understand you. 

Mid. {with suppressed passion). Obey me and my nature's 
olive oil ; go agin me and it's still ile, but it's ile of vitterel. 

Char. If, sir, you're alluding to my feehngs toward Miss 
Melrose, I 

Mid. I am. Think no more of her. Between you and 
her there's a gulf, Charles Middlewick, and that gulf's gram- 
mar. Perhaps you think I'm too ignorant to know what pride 
means. I'm not. If you ever cared for this stuck-up madam 
you must forget her. {Deterinined.) She ain't my sort; never 
will be, and she shan't be my daughter-in-law neither. 

Char. You have always prided yourself on allowing me my 
own way in everything — it was your system^ as you called it — 
and 7iow^ when it comes to a matter in which my whole future 
happiness is involved, you are cruel enough to 

Mid. {sharply). Cruel only to be kind, Charley. You 
wouldn't marry a woman who despised your father? (Char. 
moves aside to r., ashamed ; pause ; Mid. to r. c.) If you 

would, if you do, I'll cut you off with a shilling. I — I 

{In a rage.) Why don't you meet me half-way and say you'll 
obey me, you shilly-shally numskull ! 

Char, (r., /;/ a passion). You have no right to speak like 
this to me, if you are my father. 

{Pause ; Mid. astonished.) 

Mid. {in softer voice). He's right, he's quite right; calling 
names never did no good at any time. {To him.) Least- 
aways, not a numskull, Charley, of course; that was a ^Mapsy 
lingo," a slip of the pen, you know. I'm speaking for your 
good. You're her equal in everything except ofie^ Charley — 
I'm rich, but I'm a common, ignorant man. Wait, anyhow, 
until — until I — I — ain't here to disgrace you. 

{Turns aside, breaks down. Sits c, handkerchief to eyes,) 



36 OUR BOYS 

Char, {after slight pause, to R. c). My dear, kind dad, 
there's nothing in the world I wouldn't sacrifice to please 
you 



Mid. {turning to him, pleased). Ah ? 

Char. But in this instance 

Mid. {turning back grumpily). Hah ! 

Char. I can never be happy without Violet Melrose. 

Mid. Then make up your mind to be miserable. {Rises.) 

Char. The appearance of superciliousness which you im- 
agine you 

Mid. Imagifie — but it ain't for you to bandy any further 
words with me. If you disappoint me, disobey me, defy me, 
take the consequences. Say good-bye to your father, live on 
Violet Melrose's money, but don't be surprised when your 
grand lady wife taunts you with your mean position and flings 
your vulgar father's butter shop in your teeth. (Char, at- 
tempts to speak.) Not a v/ord — I've said my say, and what I 
have said, Charles Middlewick's, my ultipomatum. 

Exit, L. d. 

Char, {distracted). Every word he said was true, and cut 
like a knife ! How can I tell him that I know Violet's ap- 
parent supercilious manner is only on the surface ? That 

But is it ? Am I fooling myself all the while ? Does my blind 

admiration make me I'll speak to her, learn the real 

depth of this seeming pride, and {Is going r.) 

Enter Mary, c. Comes down l. c. 

Mary {down l. c). Oh, such fun ! 

Char, {r., disgusted). Fun? 

Mary. Yes, I've completely taken in the old gentleman. 

Char. I believe you're capable of it. 

Mary. With half-a-dozen joking remarks in admiration of 
you. I've completely put him off the scent. He firmly be- 
lieves that we're awfully spoons, and that his son's only to ask 
Violet to be accepted. 

Char. So you did that, did you ? 

Mary. Yes, I did, and Sir Geoffry's simply in raptures at 
the success of his system, as he calls it, and Violet the 

Char, {in rage). You've make matters ten times worse 
with your meddling interference. You — you've widened the 
gulf, and still further estranged us. But come what may Til 



OUR BOYS 37 

speak out and bring her to the point, if it's under the baronet's 
very nose ! I Ugh ! 

{JVith an exclamation of intense vexation at Mary, exits, R.) 

Mary {afte}- Char.'s exit^ imitating his <*/ Ugh/'* 

afte7' a blank look). Moral ! Mary Melrose, my dear, for the 
rest of your natural life never attempt to do anything kind for 
anybody. I'll become supremely selfish, and settle down into 
a narrow-minded and highly acidulated old maid. {Sits c.) 

Enter Tal., c.frofn r. 

Tal. Who's that talking about old maids ? 

{Comes dowfi R. c.) 

Mary. I was. 

Tal. Why, you're all alone. 

Mary. Yes, I like to be alone. 

Tal. That means I'm to 

Mary. Oh, no, you're— — 

Tal. Nobody. Don't count. Thanks. 

Mary. I didn't say that. 

Tal. No, but you meant it. 

Mary. Why? 

Tal. Because you didn't say it. {Pause,) 

Mary. What do you mean ? 

Tal. What I say. 

Mary. What's that? 

Tal. Nothing. 

Mary. Then you mean nothing. 

Tal. On the contrary, I mean a lot, but I can't say it. 

Mary. Then I wouldn't try. 

Tal. I won't. {Sits r. of Mary ; slight pause.) I say. 
Miss Melrose, do you know I'm dreadfully afraid of you. 

Mary. Am I so very terrible ? 

Tal. You're so fearfully sensible, you know — so satirical 
and cutting, and ** awfully clever," and I'm 7iot, you know. 

Mary. Not what, you know? 

Tal. None of that, you know. I'm a — a — muff, that's 
what /am. I haven't got a second idea. I don't believe I've 
got di first, but I'll stvear I haven't a second. 

Mary. Well, at all events^ you're not conceited, 



38 OUR BOYS 

Tal. What on earth have /got to be conceited about ? 
What are 77iy accomplishments ? I can play a fair game of 
billiards, though I'm too short-sighted for cricket. I can stick 
on the maddest horse that ever gladdened a coroner, and I can 
smoke like — like Sheffield, Not much to recommend oneself 
to a woman, eh ? 

Mary. I don't know. Miss Melrose, for instance, my rich 
and handsome cousin, has a great admiration for the Guy Liv- 
ingstone virtues. 

Tal. Don't like her — at least, don't admire her. 

Mary. Why not? 

Tal. Because I've been commanded to. Private feelings 
ain't private soldiers — you can't order them about and drill 
them like dolls. Human nature's obstinate as a rule. Do you 
know how they get the pigs on board ? 

Mary. No. 

Tal. Put their noses toward the vesseland then try and 
pull them away, backward. The result is that they run up the 
plank into the vessel immediately. Fm a pig. 

Mary. You don't say so? 

Tal. And iny sentiments ^x^ pig-headed, ray governor's are 
pig-tailed — that's to say, old-fashioned—the old ** school" 
strict obedience, marry according to orders, you know, eh ? 
(^Nudges her.) Ha ! ha ! Some of us know a trick worth two 
of that, eh ? 

Mary. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Tal. (Jaughing with her). You're a sharp one, you are. 

[Nudges her.) 

Mary. So ds^ you. 

Tal. Afn I, though ? 

Mary. Only in the elbow. Suppose you sit a little further 
off; you never crowd up so closely to Violet. 

Tal. No, I'm not given Xo poachi?ig. 

Mary. Poaching ! £^ggs ? 

Tal. Eggs be — hatched I Haven't you seen Charley Mid- 

dlewick loves her as much as — as (Aside.) I'll ^i? it 

now — I'm wound up to go it, and go it I will. 

Mary. As much as zahat ? 

Tal. As I Xov^you. 

Mary (rising). Mr. Champneys ! 

Tal. {f'ising). No, no, no, 1 don't mean that. 

Mary. No / 



OUR BOYS 39 

Tal. Yes, yes, I doy but in another way. I mean he doesn't 
love her half as much as I love you, 

Mary. You don't know your own mind. 

Tal. Don't want to. I want to know yours. 

Mary. You don't mean half you say. {Moves to L.) 

Tal. No, I don't. I mean it alL 

Mary. Your father'd disown you. 

Tal. So he might if I owned you, 

Mary {sitting on sofa, l.). You silly boy, what are you 
talking about? I haven't a penny in the world. 

Tal. Even if you did possess that humble but heavy coin, 
it could scarce be considered capital, could it ? A start at 
housekeeping on a ha'penny apiece would be a trifle rash, not 
to say risky. 

Mary. Housekeeping, indeed ! Well, I like your im- 
pudence 

Tal. I adore yours. 

Mary. I never was impertinent in my life. 

Tal. Then don't contradict. When I say, *^ Be mine,** 
don't say ** Shan't.*' 

Mary. I won't. 

Tal, \NQi'i\what? 

Mary. Say *' shan't.'* 

Tal. {crossing to her ; delighted). Do you mean it? 

Mary {rising), Talbot, you've had too much wine. 

Tal. 1 admit it. 

Mary. You have admitted it. If your father suspected this 
he'd cut you off with a shiUing, 

Tal. That's fivepence a piece better than your penny. 
We're getting on. 

Mary. You quite take one's breath away — I don't know 
what to say. 

Tal. Let me say it for you. 

Mary. No, no, I never was proposed to before. 

Tal. How do you like it ? 

Mary. But I've read dihoMt people proposing, and — and 

{Innocently.) They've always gone on their knees. 

Tal. I'll go on my head if it'll only please you. 

Mary. No, no, don't, it might give way. 

Tal. Well, as far as a knee goes — here goes. {Spreads his 
haiidker chief on floor and kneels on it.) There ! 

Ma-ry. And then the lover always made a beautiful speech. 

Tal. / know. Most adorable of your sex, a cruel parent 



40 OUR BOYS 

commands me to love another — I won't — I can't — I adore j'^w 
— you alone. I despise heiresses, I despise Parliamentary hon- 
ors, a public career, and all that bosh. (Sir G. andMwy, have 
appeared ; Sir G. now stagger Sy and supports himself o?t 
MiD.'s arfn.) I prefer love in a cottage. 1 like love — I like a 
cottage, where a fellow can smoke where he likes, and — — 

Sir G. {coming down c; bursting out). You shall have 
your wish, sir. You shall have your love and your cottage, 

and your smoke and — and {Breaks dow 71,^ Talbot — 

Talbot, what does this mean ? 

Tal. It means that I've made my own bargain — you can't 
call it an ugly one, can you ? 

( Goes up L. c. with Mary and conies down R. Sir G. over- 

come.) 

Mid. {down l., almost unable to control his amusement). 
Never mind, Champneys, it might have been worse. She's a 
proper sort, is Mary. 

Sir G. Don't ** Champneys " me, sir. I'll — I'll turn him 
out! 

Mid. Well, he hasn't turned out himself quite as you fan- 
cied he would, eh ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! Who was right in his sys- 
tem noWy eh ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

{As he is laughing. Char, heard.) 

Char, {without r.). My darling, I'll put the whole matter 
right in a moment. 

Enter Char., holding Vio. 's hand, c. , from r ; pause abruptly 
on seeing the others. 

Mid. (l.). W-w-what's this, Charles Middlewick? Who 
is this you are 

Char, {down r. c, withYio.). This, father, is my wife, or 
will be, when I have your consent. 

Mid. {crossing to c, overcome with rage). Why, you con- 
founded 

Sir G. (l. c, taking up same tone). Insolent, presuming 
young upstart, why, I 

Mid. (c, in rage, to Sir G.). Don't bully my son, sir; 
don't bully my son — that's my department. 

Sir G. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Finely your system has succeeded, 
eh? Ha! ha! ha! 



OUR BOYS 41 

Mid. We're insulted, defied, both of us. (^Excitedly,) 
Turn your disobedient cub adrift if you've the courage to stick 
to your principles. 

Sir G. And kick out your cad of a lad if your sentiments 
are not a snare and a delusion. 

(Char, and Vic, Tal. a?id Mary, all in a state of suppressed 
excitement, have been earnestly talking in an undertone 
during the blustering row of the fathers,^ 

Enter Clar. 

Mid. So I will, sir, so I will. Charles Middlewick, madam, 
that boy's no longer any son of mine. If you accept him you 
blight his prospects. 

Clar. {down l.). Mr. Middlewick, are you aware that 
Miss Melrose is 

Sir G. (l. c, violently). Don't you dare to interfere, 
madam. 

Vio. I have accepted him, sir, and I will not blight his 
prospects. 

(Char, and Vio. go up to c. d.k^, joins them. Mid., over- 
come with rage, crosses to l.) 

Sir G. (Jo c, to Tal.). And as {or you, you impostor ! 
Tal. That'll do. I won't trouble you any longer. I'm off. 

(Starts up r. c. with Mary.) 

Sir G. Off, sir! where? 

Tal. That's my business. (Stops r. c.) 

Char, (crossing to Tal. and taking his hand). Yes, our 



business. 



(Mary goes to Vio. up c.) 



Mid. (l.). Oh, yes — you can go with him if you please, 
and a good riddance. 

Sir G. (l. c). Go — go and starve. 

Tal. (r. c). That we can do without your permission, 
anyhow. You've kicked us out remember, father, because, 
being grown men, we've set our affections where our hearts 
have guided us — not your heads, (Clar. comes dow?i r. to 
back of easy chair.) And — and — Charley, finish it. I'm not 
an orator, and don't want to be. 

WARN curtain* 



42 OUR BOYS 

Char. (Jo girls). We'll prove ourselves worthy of you by 
our own unaided exertions, and will neither of us ask you to 
redeem your promise till we've shown ourselves worthy of your 
esteem. We can get our living in London, and rely upon it 
you' II never hear of our distress should we suffer it. 

{Crosses to Vio.) 

Clar. (r., distressed). Talbot, my dear nephew, you 

Sir G. (r. c, violently). Hold your tongue ! 

Vio. {half cryi?ig ; to the fathers). You're a couple of 
hard-hearted monsters, and 1 don't know which I hate the 
most. 

Mary. No — nor which is the uglier of the two. 

{Crosses to Tal. Char., taking farewell ^ Vio., kisses her 
up c. Tal. taking leave of Mary, up r. c.) 

Sir G. (l. c, aside ; viole?itly shaking Mid.'s hand). 
You've acted nobly, sir — you — you're a downright Roman 
father. 

RING curtain* 

Mid. (l., reciprocating). You're another. 

{The two old men shaking each other' s hands violently ^ but 
evidently overcome by mingled emotions. Tal. and Char. 
embrace girls and quick exit, c. to L. ; Clar. falls on to 
chair y r. ; on the mov erne fit of the scene j) 



ACT DROP 

(Second Picture. — Clar. discovered fainting ; Vio. holding 
scent bottle to her nose. Mary at back waving handker- 
chief on terrace off, R. ; Sir G. on seat, c, overcome. 
Mid., with hands thrust deep into his pockets ^ standing 
doggedly, L.) 



OUR BOYS 43 



ACT III 

Scene. — The third floor at Mrs. Patcham's. A very shabby 
sitting-room in a third-rate lodging-house, A door, l. 
2nd E. ; a door r. c, in flat, leadifig to landi?ig; doors 
R. 1st E. and R. 2nd E. ; fireplace and mantel-shelf y L. ; 
a shabby old ar7n chair by fireplace ; wooden stool below 
fireplace ; chair down R. ; ^ table , c, 07i which are re- 
mains of breakfast — very common teapot with broken 
spout, a small stale remains of a loaf, two egg-cups, with 
the shells of eggs in them, brown sugar iii a cup, etc, ; 
hat rack up r. ; small table up c, 7vith penny bottle 
of ink, pens and paper and a few books. A tapping 
heard at the door, repeated, and the?i Belinda, a slat- 
ternly lodging-house sei'vant, puts her head in. She is 
dirty and ragged ; small ?naid' s cap tipped o?i right side 
of head. Walks with a halting, tragic step, 

LIGHTS full up. 

Bel. Was you ringing ? Please, was you a (Enters, 

carrying an empty coal box,) Neither of 'em here. Bother 
them cinders, if I had my way with 'em Fd chuck *em out of 
winder instead of having to carry 'em down -stairs as careful as 
coals. Coals ! Precious few of them the young gents has, 
and prices a-rising dreadful. For they are gents, if they do 
buy only kitchen ones and has 'em in by the yunderd. What 
a fire ! it's as pinched up as 

(^Gets down on knees before fire and is about to give it a vigor- 
ous poke when she is restrained by the entrance of Tal., 
R. 1st E. He is shabby, and a great contrast to his former 
showy self.) 

Tal. {down r. c, sharply'). Now then ! 

Bel. [tur fling with the poker in her hand). Eh ? 

Tal. {crossing l. c). What are you going to do? 

Bel. Only going to 

Tal. Of course. Strike a little fire like that, it's cowardly. 

(^Takes poker from her.) 



44 OUR BOYS 

Bel. Shall I put some more coal on ? {Rises.) 

Tal. Certainly not. 

Bel. You wouldn't let it go out ? 

Tal. Why not? It's a free country. {Crosses to table.) 

Bel. {aside). Sometimes I think they're both a little 

{Touches her head,) It's too much study, that's what it is. 

{Sweeps up the hearth.) 

Tal. {aside). Capital girl, this; simple and honest. A 
downright daughter of the soil, and carries her parentage in 
her countenance. Perhaps you had better put a pinch or two 
on. Mr. Middlevvick will be in direcdy. {She goes into 
room^ L. 27id e.) He'll be cold, poor fellow, though, of course, 
he'll swear he isn't. {Crosses to fireplace and sits.) I'm get- 
ting uneasy about Charley. Ever since I was seedy, and he 
sat up so much with me I've noticed a change in him; if he 

CRASH outside* 

doesn't improve I shall {Crash of coals heard.) There's 

a suspicious, not to say a shallow, sound about those coals. 

Enter Bel. ivith shovel of coals. Crosses back of table to r. 
and then dowji to c. 

Bel. (c). I tell you what, sir, your coals are dreadful low. 

Tal. Low ! Blackguardly, I call them ! 

Bel. I can easily order some m.ore when I go to Loppit's ! 

Tal. Just so. Whether Loppit would see it in the same 
light's a question. There is already a trifling account which 

Bel. Oh, Loppit can wait. 

Tal. He can — short weight. By the way, I saw some 
boxes in the hall. 

Bel. {crossing to fireplace in front of Tal.). Yes, missus 
has gone out of town for a fortnight, and 

{Is about to put on the lot of coal.) 

Tal. {pushing her back). Gently — a bit at a time. {Takes 

up a piece with the tongs,) There — there {Business.) I 

say, Belinda, if Loppit were to call his coals '*not so dusty" 
it would be paying them a compHment, wouldn't it ? 

Bel. Ha ! ha 1 ha ! Well, you are a funny gent, you are. 



OUR BOYS 45 

{As Tal. makes up the fire Char, enters, d. /;/ f. He too is 

shabby, and looks worn. He carries some papers and 
MSS.f and a large, well-worn gazetteer which he places 
on table at back.) 

Char, (coming down r. c). Halloa 1 Talbot, old man, 
what are you doing now ? 

Tal. Giving Belinda a lesson in domestic economy — you 
know a severe winter always hardens the coal-merchant's heart. 

Char. Yes, yes. 

(Takes off gloves and hat, goes up, places them on table up r. c.) 

Tal. And they're simply going up like — like 

Char. Smoke ! 

Tal. There ! i^Has do?ie fire, stands before it, facifig 
Char. Bel. takes back shovel into room,) I consider I 
make a first-rate fire. 

Char, (jip r. c). Yes, you don't make a bad screen. 

Tal. I beg your pardon. 

(Moves aside. Sits ifi armchair i.., by fireplace.) 

Char. Don't mention it. The attitude and position are 
thoroughly insular and Britannic. It is a remarkable fact that 
an Englishman who never turns his back on the fire of an enemy 
invariably does it with his friends. (Moves to r.) 

Tal. (aside). We've got our ''sarcastic stop" on this 
morning, eh? Well, Charley, I suppose you did no good with 
Gripner? 

Char. I had a highly interesting interview with that worthy 
publisher. (Bel. enters l. 2?td -e.,, crosses slowly, ^;/^ exits 
door in flat. They both look at her,) I thought jv^w thought 
that the poem I commenced at Cologne for amusement had 
some stuff in it ! (Sits r. of table.) 

Tal. (rising, crossing, sitting i.. of table). Stuff / Ha — 
fulloiit. 

Char. Exactly. Partial friends have declared I had a real 
vein of poetry, but Gripner — ha ! ha ! He — well, he disguised 
his sentiments by assuring me poetry was a mere drug in the 
market. He'd also thrown his eye on those social sketches I'd 
thought were rather smart, but he said he knew at least fifty 
people who can roll out such things by the ream. However, 
he's given us a dozen pages apiece for his new gazetteer. We 
begin in the middle of M — you can start at Mesopotamia, and 



46 OUR BOYS 

work your way on at ten shillings a column. {Rises and hands 
him papers,^ It's bread and cheese ! {Moves to r.) 

Tal. {seated l. of table). I should think so. Ten shillings 
a column. {Unfolds papers ; printed sheets.) By Jove, they 
are columns though. Regular Dukes of York. Penny a 
lining's coining compared to it. I can't say at the moment I 
know much about Mesopotamia, but 

Char, {going tip to table at back and getting gazetteer). I 
remembered old Mother Patcham had a dilapidated gazetteer 
down-stairs, so I borrowed it, and you can copy the actual facts. 

{Hands book to Tal.) 

Tal. Just so. Put it all m different language. 

Char. Yes, the more indifferent the better. 

Tal. {exanmiing book). Her book's about twenty years old ; 
never mind — I'll double the population everywhere — that'll 
do it. 

Char, {sitting "i^. of table). Talking about population, I've 
had an interview with the agent for emigration to Buenos Ayres 
— he rather pooh-poohed us as emigrants. They don't want 
gentlemen. 

Tal. We don't appear in particular request anywhere. It 
seems absurd to be hard- up in the Cattle Show week. 

Char. Our governors are up in town, I'll swear. 

Tal. Mine never missed the show for forty years. I can 
see him critically examining the over-fed monsters — punching 
the pigs and generally disturbing the last hours of the vaccine 
victims. 

Char. Whom I envy. What a glorious condition is theirs 
— fed on the daintiest food — watched and waited on like princes 
— admired by grazing — I mean gazing crowds, and 

Tal. Eventually eaten, don't forget that. I'll go as far as 
the sheep with you, they^^// do what we can't. 

Char. What's that? 

Tal. Get a living out of their pens. 

Char. Beginning to joke now. You're a changed being, 
Talbot. 

Tal. Yes. Genuine ** hard-upishness " is a fine stimulant 
to the imagination. The sensation of four healthy appetites a 
day, with 

Char. The power of only partially appeasing two 

Tal. Exactly — makes a fellow 

Char. Thin, Our cash is assuming infinitesimal propor- 



OUR BOYS 47 

tions, Talbot. We must still further reduce our commissariat. 
Tve been calculating, and I find that henceforth bacon at break- 
fast must be conspicuous by its absence. 

Tal. Bacon — the word suggests philosophy, so with many 
thanks for past favors, ** bye-bye. Bacon/' 

(^Kisses his hands, ^ 

Char. When we first parted with our convertible property, 
we had hope in our hearts and cash in our money box. Now 
things don't look rosy we must bow to circumstances. ** Tem- 
pora mutantur." 

Tal. **Et nos mutamur in iUis." 

Char. Which being loosely translated 

Tal. Means that we must give up the Times and take in 
the Telegraph, 

Char. We've parted with a good many things, Talbot, but 
we've stuck to one — our word. We've never appealed to a re- 
lation. 

Tal. Except, of course, a certain avuncular relative 
who 

Char. Shall be nameless. Just so — but our governors 
must have discovered by this time that our determination was 
no empty boast, and Violet and Mary have never heard a word 
from either of us. No one can say we've shown the white 
feather. 

Tal. (rising). One minute — I must clean my boots. 

{Takes up hoots which are on mantel at fireplace, and brings 
blacking-bottle from corner with a bit of stick in it, and 
boot brushes.) 

Char. Why on earth do you always begin to 

Tal. (l., blacking boot). Always begin to clean my boots 
when you talk about Violet and Mary? Because I feel it's 
necessary at the mention of their names to work off my super- 
abundant and irrepressible emotion. I feel if I don't have a go 

in at my boots, I shall do some awful {Begins to brush 

violently,) Now go it ! 

Char. Do you know, Talbot, I could almost swear I saw 
Violet to-day ? 

Tal. (crossing quickly to table). You don't say so ? 

Char. And I vow I saw Mary. 

Tal. Hah ! (Zb l. C. j brushes with tremendous violence,) 



48 OUR BOYS 

Char. I don't think they saw me^ but 

Tal. {at the boot). What a shine there'll be in a moment ! 
Char. For I dodged behind a cab and 

Enter Bel., d. in f. 

Tal. And got away without 

Bel. (down r. c, brusquely). What are you doing of? 
(Crosses l. c.) Drop them boots. 

Tal. Belinda ! 

Bel. / clean the lodgers* boots. And it's my place to clean 
yours — if you are a third floorer. 

{Takes boot and brush from Tal. ; crosses i.,^ front of Tal,) 

Tal. (l. c, aside), A third floorer ! 
Char. Belinda, don't talk as if you were reporting a prize 
fight. 

(Bel. cleans boots l. ; sits on floor,) 

Tal. And deal gently with the heels ; they won't be trifled 
with. 

Char, (j-isingy crossing to door, r. 2nd e.). I've got a 
deuce of a headache, Talbot, and as I want a good afternoon's 
dig at the gazetteer, I'll go and lie down a bit in my den. 

Tal. {crossing to Char.). Do. I heard you walking up 
and down the room half the night; you're getting ill / 

Char. Not a bit, old man, not a bit. Nerves a little shaky, 
that's all— that's all. 

Exit, R. 2nd E. 

Bel. (l.). I tell you what — it's my o'pmionyou wasn't half 
as ill as you'll soon have Mr. Middlesexes ! 

(Bel. calls him ** Middlesexes^\) 

Tal. {doivn'R, q,). Middlez£//V/^, Belinda. It's the natural 
obstinacy of your nature to call people out of their names. My 
name being Champneys, you call me Chimneys — had it been 
Chimneys you'd have had it Chimbleys, of course. {Aside.) 
She's right, though. I'll go and ask Barnard to come round 
and see him. {Takes up hat,) I shall be4n soon. By the 
way, those breakfast things are not an ornament — if, in a lucid 
interval, you should feel disposed to take them down-stairs, I 
shall not feel offended. 

Exit, D. in F. 



OUR BOYS 49 

Bel. {f'ising slowly, putting boot down and crossing, while 
talking, to back of table). He's a queer young gent, that; so 
are both of *em. But, somehow, Tvetookto 'em — took to 'em 
/r^mendous. I wonder who they are. I'm sure they're ^<f;/- 
ilemen 'cos they can't do nothing for a living. Then they don't 
bully a poor lodging-house slavey. ** Slavey" — that's what 
they call me, but, somehow, it don't seem rude like from them. 
Missis says they're ** under a cloud," she thinks, and she's always 
in a regler fluster every Saturday till they've paid their rent. 
Ha, well, they knows their own business {the door in flat 
opens arid Sir G. enters, then Mid. Bel. is placing the things 
on tray) best, I suppose. Couldn't stand by and see him 
a-blacking his 

Sir G. (r. (/Bel.). He-hem ! 

(Bel. starts.) 

Mid. (other side of her). He-hem ! 
Bel. Bless us, who dir^you ? 

(Retires up a little and stands frightened watching them. The 
two old gentlemen look round the room with a rueful ex- 
pression of countenance. Sir G. goes doivn r. c. Mid. 
dow7i L. c. , and approach each other back to back, bumping 
into each other at c.) 

Mid. (c. l.). Well ! 

Sir G. (c. r.). Well ! 

Mid. a — here we are. 

Sir G. Confound it, sir, don't talk like a clown. 

Mid. I won't. {Aside, miserably). I don't feel like one. 
Pantaloon, and a worse treated one than ornery's more in my 
way a deal. 

Sir G. {looking around ; moving to r. c). Why — why it's 
a mere garret. 

Mid. Where did you expect to find 'em? At Claridge's 
Hotel? or the Langham? Perhaps you hoped to see 'em 
driving mail /^<?atons in the Park, or a-lolling out of a swell 
club winder in Pall Mall. {Moves to l. c.) Garret as you 
call it, /don't see as it's so oncomfortable. 

Sir G. (r. c, in broken voice). I'm glad you think so, sir, 
I'm glad you think so. 

Mid. (l. c, aside, in tone of pity). Poor dear boy, to think 
he should have come to this ! 



50 OUR BOYS 

Sir G. {affecting harshness). Not that I relent in any way. 
Oh, no, no. 

Mid. {assuming same to?ie). Nor I, nor I ! As they make 
their beds so they must lie. 

Bel. (over hear i?ig, coming down c. between them). Bless 
your 'art, sir, they never make their own beds. 

Mid. He- hem ! {Aside,) The servant. The very image 
of the gal as waited on me when 1 lived in a attic in Pulteney 
Street. It's my belief as nature keeps a mould for lodging- 
house servant gals and turns 'em out 'olesale like buttons. 
She's the identical same gal — same to a smudge. {To her,) 
These young men here, are they pretty comfortable and all 
that ? 

Bel. {aside). Pumping! Who are they? {To them,) 
Pretty well. 

Mid. Do they — do they dine at home ? 

Bel. No — they breakfusseses ! 

{Goes up c. to back of table.) 

Sir G. Oh, they breakfusseses. Is that — or rather was that 
their breakfast? 

Bel. Yes. 

Mid. {up to l. of table, aside ; taking up egg). Shop 'uns. 
Sixteen a shilling. / knows 'em. {Puts it down,) To think 
Charley should have to {Breaks down.) 

Sir G. {up to r. of table ; through his glasses). Good 
Heavens ! what dreadful looking butter ! 

(Bel. goes r.) 

Mid. (l. of table, faintly), Dossit — my dear sir — inferior 
Dossit ! {Aside,) Precious inferior. 

Sir G. (r. of table), Dorset, man, Dorset ! 

Mid. {in rage). Come here, I say, you know — you may be 
at home in all matters of /^etiquette, and gene/jallogy — and 
such like, but dammy, do let me know something of butter. 
I tell you that it's Dossit — Dossit — that's what it is — and 
what's more it's a two /bounce pat ! 

Sir G. {stiffly). On such a minute matter of professional 
detail I cannot, of course, attempt to argue. {Goes up r. c.) 

Mid. (l. c, aside). Now that's all put on. Inside he's a 
suppressed ^earthquake. He's a-longing to throw his arms 
round his boy; but he wants me to give in first. 



OUR BOYS 51 

{Beckons to Bel,, who has got doivn r. She sidles across to 
him and always approaches both him and Sir G. in that 
manner. He talks aside to Bel.) 

Sir G. (aside, crossitig to r., ^/). His rage is only a safety 
valve for his pent-up affection ; poor fellow, he'd like me to 
propose a truce, but it's not for a man in my position to suc- 
cumb to sentiment. I've only to wait, and his feelings, which 
are stronger — I may say coarser than mine, are sure to melt. 

{Continues to examine room up r.) 

Mid. (l. c, to Bel.). And how's their appetites — pretty 
'arty ? 

Bel. (c). Fine. I often hear 'em telling one another what 
they've had for dinner, but when I see the way they devours 
their tea — do you know, I sometimes fancy 

Mid. Yes? 

Bel. As they've had no dinner at all. 

(Sir G. comes down r.) 

Mid. {after slight pause, in a low voiced . No — no dinner 
at all. {Tur7is aside, and places his hand at his heart for a 
moment, shading his eyes with his other o?ie,) Here — you 
seem a decent young woman — here's a half-sovereign — not a 
word. We're friends oi frie?ids of these young men. Speak 
out truthfully. Did you ever hear them speak of — of their 
relations ? 

(Bel. backs up a little,) 

Sir G. (r.). Yes, yes, friends, belongings — a — speak out! 

Bel. Oh, yes, and more than once, by accident — for I 
ain't got time for listening — I heard 'em say they'd rather 
starve than write to 'em. 

Mid. {overcome). Did ihey — did they} {Sits i.. of table.) 

Sir G. (r., proudly). That was firmness — pride ! 

Mid. ¥rom your point of view. Being a tradesman, /call 
it obstinacy. 

Sir G. Fostered in your case by a system of absurd laxity. 

Mid. {aside^. And that to the man as he called a Roman 
father ! 

Bel. But at one time — when one of 'em was taken ill 

SirG. 



Tv/r,^ , . . . I What ! 
Mid. {rising), \ 



52 OUR BOYS 

Sir G. (crossing to Bel., grabbing her right hand). 111! 
Ill, girl — not VERY ill ? 

Mid. {grabbing Bel.'s left arm almost fiercely). Which 
was it ? 

Sir G. Yes — speak, woman — which — not — not — the shorter 
one, the one with the light hair, who 

Bel. Yes, him. 

(Mid. moves l. c.) 

Sir G. {overcome ; i^i broken voice). But he — ht got better 9 

Bel. Yes. {Backi?ig a little.) Thanks to the other gent, 

who waited on him hand and foot, and never took his clothes 

oft' for a week, looking after his friend and attending to him for 

all the world as if he'd been his brother. 

(Sir G. goes to Mid., l. c, grasps his hafid, with a sob 
aside. Mid. silently returns the grasp, each holding head 
down. Bel. moves k. c.) 

Mid. {after pause ; low voice ; crossing down c. in front of 
Sir G.). And — and the other — who — who helped his sick 
friend so — so noble. 

Bel. (r. c). Well, it's my opinion he's in a worse way 
than the other, though he won't own it. 

Mid. {very faintly, a7id ill grief). No — no 

{Staggers slightly back. Sir G. supports him.) 

Sir G. {gently, aside to Mid.). Come— come, old friend, 
be a man (giving way), be a man as — as / am — don't give 
way. I'm firm — firmer than— than ever. 

{Blows his 710 se to hide his emotio?i. Goes up a little, then 
crosses to ^. at back.) 

Mid. What — v/hat makes you fancy so? 

Bel. Well, when he first come he was cheerful and happy, 
but bit by bit — as he got shabbier — he grew quieter like — and 
sometimes I've spoke to him three or four times afore he seemed 
to know I was a-speaking, and 

Mid. {aside). Poor boy ! Poor boy ! 

{Crosses L. and sits on stooL) 



OUR BOYS 53 

Sir G. {coming down r. and sitting; aside). And he 
helped and nursed Talbot — 1 wish I'd come here sooner. 

Bel. {backing up c. ; aside). Who can they be ? I don't 
Hke leaving 'em here, and all the lodgers' private papers about. 
There's a sort of County Court look about the short one. I've 
seen bailiffs enough in my time, and it ain't a bit unlikely 
as 

Sir G. {risifig, r.). Middlewick, something must be done. 
We — we mustn't forget ourselves and become maudlin^ you 
know. 

Mid. {rising l., pulling himself together). No, no, cer- 
tainly not. 

Sir G. (r.). After all, we did everything for them, and 
they showed a shameful return. 

Mid. (l., convincing himself ), Yes, yes, so they did, so 
they did. 

Sir G. Defied us. 

Mid. No mistake about it, and when you turned 'em 
out 

Sir G. You turned them out. ^ 

Mid. You suggested it first. 

Sir G. Well, well, they've eaten the leek. 

Mid. Ye-es, there ain't much nourishment in leeks, though 
I admit, relishy. 

Sir G. I see you're giving way. {Sharply.) You're 
thawing. 

Mid. Me **thawring!" not me. But you was saying as 
something must be done, and I says ditto. Anonymous, of 
course. 

Sir G. {to r. c). Quite so; permit me to arrange it. 
(Bel. is at back of table. Sir G., r. c, turns and beckons her 
to approach. She appears frightened, looks at him earnestly 
and then slozvly sidles to wall at extreme R. at back, then dow?i 
R. wall to front and stops extreme R. Sir G. beckons her 
again and she comes toward him in long side steps, stopping 
between each one suspiciously. When she gets close to Sir G. 
he continues his speech.) Young woman, there's something in 
your face thoroughly honest — the frequent contact with 
cinders, or whatever it may be, cannot conceal your innate 
truthfulness; your face is a picture, and I am old-fashioned 
enough not to object to a picture in a black frame. I 
prefer it. 

Bel. {aside). Soft sawder. Something's a-coming. 



54 OUR BOYS 

Sir G. (c). In the first place, you mustn't say anything of 
our visit, and when the young men come in you must give 
them an envelope. 

Mid. (l. c). Two — two /^envelopes. 

Bel. {standing back). Not if I know it. {Aside,') A sum- 
mons, of course. (To them,) I don't know neither of you 
gentlemen, but I wouldn't do nothing as would bring any harm 
to our third floorers for nothing as you could offer me. 

Positions 

Sir G. 

Bel. Mid. 

And, perhaps, you'll be good enough to take back your 'arf 
crown. 

(Bel. crosses quickly in front of Sir G. and slaps the half 
crown into MiD.'s hand, and then goes up to take tray 
from table.) 

Sir G. {going r., aside). Remarkable ! But I never could 
understand the lower classes. 

MiD. {to l., aside). If that 'arf sovereign doesn't blossom 
into a fi-pun note before the day's out my name ain't Middle- 
wick. 

Sir G. But whatever you do don't mention that 

What's that? some one coming up the stairs? 

Bel. {going to door in flat). Yes. 

Sir G. We mustn't be seen. 

Mid. Not for the world. What's this? 

{Goes to door, l. 2nd 'e.) 

Bel. {up c). That's what the gents calls their ^omnium 
gatherum — where they keeps 

Sir G. {to door, r. ist e.). Is this Talbot's — I mean, 
Mr. 

Bel. Chimneys' room? yes, but you mustn't 

(Sir G. bolts into door, r. ist e., as a tap is heard, d. f., 
and shuts door. Mid. is peeping into roo?n, i,. 2nd E., 
when a tapping is heard and a loud ** He-hem.^') 

Mid. Get us out of this without the lodgers seeing us and 

rii 



OUR BOYS 55 

(Bolts into room as door in flat slowly opens ; he does not 
see who it is. Enter Clar., dressed in walking dress 
and carrying a reticule. Business of Clar. and Bel. 
scrutinizing each other, ^ 

Clar. {up r. c). Young woman, are the gentlemen who 
lodge up here both out ? 

Bel. {lip c). Yes'm. {Aside,) One is, and t'other's 
a-lying down and don't want worrying. 

Clar. Phew ! {Sits r. of table ; aside). This is the serv- 
ant, the young woman Mr. Warrington, the detective, told me 
was **a good sort" — an odd phrase, but expressive. (Bel. 
goes L. and down to fireplace ; always watching Clar. ) If I 
hadn't employed him the poor young men might have done 
something dreadful, with their pride and their sense of inde- 
pendence and all that. 

Bel. {down l.). Was you wanting to see either of 'em ? 

Clar. Well, no, not just now. (Bel. sits on floor a?td 
brushes hearth, etc. Clar., aside.) Geoffry, after discover- 
ing everything by shamefully intercepting one of Mr. War- 
rington's letters, thinks to frighten me with threats of even 
stopping my allowance and turning me out of his house if I 
communicate with Talbot. Bah ! he's my own nephew, and 
he shan't starve whilst his Aunt Clarissa's got a penny in the 
world. His father may act like a brute, and so may Mr. 
Middlewick, but — ugh ! Cattle Show, indeed. Coming to 
stare at a collection of adipose sheep, all sleep and suet ; at 
islands of lean in oceans of obesity, called by courtesy cows; 
and a parcel of plethoric and apoplectic pigs, their own sons all 
the while wasting away to shadows. {Brings out fowl, ready 
trussed, from reticule,) Mrs. Patcham's out of town, isn't 
she? 

Bel. Yes'm. 

Clar. Then there won't be any one in the kitchen ? 

Bel. Not a soul, 'cept me and the beetles. 

Clar. Very good. Your fire's in, of course? {Rises.) 

Bel. Trust me. Missus and the fire ain't never out to- 
gether. {Brushes hearth.) 

Clar. Very good — then follow me. 

Exit, D. F., carrying the fowl ; leaves bonnet on a chair, r. 

of table, 

Bel. {jumping up). Here I say {Goes to v, f.) She 



$6 OUR BOYS 

don't mean no harm. She's a relation of one of the gents, she 
is. {Listens.^ She skips down them kitchen stairs like a 

KNOCK outside. 

{A distant knock heard at front door. Comes to back of 
table.) These breakfast things'U be here all day. Bother 

A DOOR slams outside. 

the knocker ! {Takes up things 07i tray; a door slams.) Oh, 
Mrs. Radcliffe's opened the front door for me. A nice woman 
that. Always ready to save a poor girl's legs. Bless my 'art, 
I forgot all about them two parties in ambush. Well, they 
must wait until I 

{Goes toward door in flat with tray as enter, d. f., Vio., 
then Mary. Bel. backs away to c.) 

Vio. {up R. c). This is the third floor, I believe. That 
very nice old lady who opened the door said that 

{Both girls timid,) 

Mary {up r. c, l. ^ Vio.). Oh, if you please, is Mr. 
Champneys in ? 

Vio. Or Mr. Middlewick ? 

Bel. No, miss. {Backs a little to l. c.) 

Both. How are they ? 

Bel. Well, really — a 

Vio. {crossing at back to Bel.). They are not ill — Mr. 
Middlewick is not /// ? 

Bel. No, miss. 

Vio. {aside to lAk^Y). Isn't it a dreadful place? 

Mary {crossing l. front of table). Poor dear Talbot ! 

Vio. {coming down r. c). Oh, Charley ! {Turns to Bel.) 
Are they likely to be long? 

Bel. {up c). Can't say. 

Mary (l.). Are the gentlemen out much? 

Bel. Yes, miss. 

Vio. (r.). Late? 

Bel. Don't know. They both has latch keys. 

Vio. Mary, we'll wait till they come in and surprise 
them. {Crosses to Mary.) 

Mary (l.). If \i's proper. {Speaks to Bel.) I suppose 
they never have any visitors ? 



OUR BOYS 57 

Bel. Well, as to that^ you see 

Vio. (l. c, aside). The girl seems confused. I almost 
wish 1 hadn't come. I always was of a suspicious nature. I 

LOUD crash off R* 

can't help it. Mary believes in everybody, but I {Tre- 

mendotis crash in rooni^ r. ist e. Bel. rushes wildly across 
and grabs door-knob^ standing with her back to door to bar 
their entrance,) What's that? 

Bel. {at door, r. ist e.). N-nothing, miss. — It's a print- 
ing machine next door. When it's at work it throbs like a 
regler ^edache, 

Vio. (Jo R. c). Whose room's that ? 

(Points to door, r. 2nd e,) 

Bel. Mr. Middlesexes. 

Mary. Middleze//V>^. I've a very good mind to 

(Moves toiaard door, r. 2Jid e. Bel. hastily Jumps before it. 

Vio. to c.) 

Bel. You mustn't go there. 

Mary (down r. c, aside to Vio.). Do you see her alarm ? 

Vio. (to L. c). Am I blind ? 

Mary. No, but perhaps we both have been, (Goes to back 
of chair, r. c. Screams at sight of bon?iet on chair ; r. of 
table, in a low voice to Vio.) Look — look there ! 

Vio. (crossing and picking up bonnet ; in horror), A hu- 
man bonnet. Girl ! (Seizes Bel. by the arm aiid drags her 
down R.) Don't prevaricate. Speak the truth and I'll give 
you more money than you ever had in your life ! 

(Mary down l. c.) 

Bel. (r., half crying), I don't know what's a-coming to 
everybody this blessed day — I wish missus would come back. 

Vio. Whose is this ? (Shakes bonnet at Bel.) 

Bel. (r.). a lady's, of course. 

Vio. (R. c). You hear, Mary? 

Mary (l. c, tearfully). Oh, don't speak to me ! 

Bel. But she's a nice sort of woman as ever lived and she 
says she's as fond of 

Vio, Of which? 



$8 OUR BOYS 

Bel. Of both of them. 
Mary. The wretch ! 

C31ASH off L- 

Vio. This is no place for us, Mary. ( Crosses and throws 
bofinet in chair L. of table. Crash heard, room L. Grabs 
Mary with a half scream.) That's not a printing machine. 

(Bel. rushes across to door l. 2nd E. Stands with back 

against it,) 

Mary. I will see who — I mean whafs in that room. ( Up 
to Bel.) Stand aside, girl. 

Bel. *Scuse me, that's the gents' private apartment — their 
/lominum gatherum, and 

Vio. (drawing Mary down l. c). Come, Mary. We've 
been two fools, dear, and we 

{As they go toward D. F., Chai^, frojn r. 2nd^.y and T Ah. 
from D. F., enter; slight pause,) 

Tal. {up R. c). Mary ! 

Char, {down r.). Violet ! Can I believe my eyes ! 
Vio. (c. ). /can. And my ears. So can Mary. 
Mary (c. l. ofYio.). Implicitly. 

(Bel. anxiously advances to l. c, at back.) 

Char. But, Violet, this is so unexpected 

Vio. {sarcastically). Evidently. 

Char. So — so bewildering. So inexplicable, and 

Tal. So jolly rum ! {Comes dow7i l. c.) 
Mary (c. l., coldly). Quite so. 

Char. (r.). But how — how did you 

Tal. (l.). Did you find us out? 

Vio. (c. r.). Never mind. Suffice it to say, Mr. Middle- 
wick, that 



Mary. That we have - 



Vio. '* Found you out." 

{The girls curtsey ; the men dumbfoundered.) 

Char. You saw me in the street. 

Vio. Probably. We were foolish enough to think you — 
we thouglit your silence proof of your truth — we deceived our- 
selves 



OUR BOYS 59 

Mary. Don*t, Violet ! Where's your spirit? Let us leave 
them to their own consciences, if they have any. {They go up 
to door ill fiat ; stop ; poi?it to Bel., who is up l. c.) This is 
evidently a well- trained confederate. Henceforth we are 

strangers. 

Vio. Utter strangers. 

[They exeunt d. f. After a pause of dismay, Tal. and 
Char, rush to Bel., and drag her forward. Tal., l., 
Char., r.) 

Tal. What have you been saying to those ladies? 

Bel. Nothink. But they called me a corn-fed-rat, and I 

ain't a-goin' to bear it. Look here, ladies, I {Goes 

quickly to door in flat, turns at door in imitation of Mary, 
repeats her lines, ^ ** Where's your spirit? Let us leave them 
to their own consciences if they have any. This is evidently a 
well-trained corn-fed-rat. Henceforth we are strangers." 

{Bangs door open and exits. All of above burlesque exag- 
geration of Mary. Char. a?id Tal. look at each other,) 

Char. This is some conspiracy. Somebody's been villify- 
ing us — they shan't leave without one 2£/<?rrtf of explanation, 
though. 

Exit, D. F. 

(Tal. goes to fireplace, his back to the door of the room where 
his father is.) 

Tal. The girls don't mean it — can't mean it. Unless our 
determined silence has seemed suspicious, and — slightly alter- 
ing the poet — suspicion ever haunts the female mind — always 
admitting there is such a thing as a female mind, which I'm 
beginning to doubt 

{Sits in armchair at fireplace and leans head on hand. Sir G. 
opens door a little ; it hides him from Tal. ) 

Sn^ G. (r., to himself). They've all gone. Not one sylla- 
ble could I distinguish; but women's voices, and at high 
words, were only too evident. This comes of leaving two 
headstrong lads to the temptations of town. Oh, Talbot, I 
knew you were not a genius, but 1 did hope you would never 
forget you were a gentleman ! 



6o OUR BOYS 

(Char, reenters quickly door r. c. in flat ; as he does so Sir G. 
steps back, /learly closing the door ; the side of the room 
is set obliquely so that he is perfectly visible to audiencCy 
though unseen by those on the stage. Mid. enters a little 
way,) 

Char, {coming down r. c). Well, upon my life, they're a 
pretty pair. 

Mid. {aside). Ah, I was sure I heard two of 'em. 

Char, {flinging himself into a chair r. of table). A couple 
of beauties, I do think. 

Mid. (aside). So do I. A nice noisy couple whoever they 
were. Pretty acquaintances for two young chaps as bragged 
of their fidelity ! 

Tal. (risifig). Fact is they've got tired of waiting for us. 
They see we're poor — and are likely to keep so. What a con- 
founded draft there is from that 

{Goes to close door of his room^ r. h. ; Sir G. advances; 
Tal. back to c. ; Char, rises, comes down l. of Tal. ; 
Mid. QTitevs further simultaneously ; both tndigfiant,) 

Mid. (coming down l.). Sir Geoffry, you heard, of course. 

Sir G. (r.). Not a word could I distinguish, for my hear- 
ing is utterly failing me. But you heard women*s voices? 

Mid. Distinctly — even through the row of some confounded 
machine — a printer's, I fancy — next door. 

Sir G. Though we could not distinguish a word your fe- 
male friends said, some oi yours reached us, and but too plainly 

mdicated the familiar terms which Oh, Talbot, I had 

hoped there would be still something of dignity and self-denial 
to qualify your absurdly Quixotic conduct, but I was mistaken. 
From your birth I mapped out your future, and hoped and 
prayed it should be a bright one, and now I find my son, my 
only child, who should have been my joy and pride, prove 
himself not only wilful and wrong-headed — I could have looked 
over that — but a profligate, and that, Talbot Champneys, I 
never will forgive. 

Char. (c. l.). Don't speak, Talbot; let me. So, sirs, you 
have been playing the spy upon your sons. 

Mid. Don't exasperate me, Charles Middlewick, and no 
smug-faced shamming. WeM hunted you out, ready to for- 
give everything, but — a — there — I knew you were thoughtless, 
careless, reckless even, but I never dreamt you had a bit of vice 
in your whole nature, 



i 



OUR BOYS 6l 

Char, {aside). Thisis too much; the last straw breaks 

Tal. (c. r.). Who knows this is the last straw? After 
what I've heard recently I'm prepared for an entire stack. 

Char. You are not the only people who have misjudged us. 

Tal. No ; others who were here but recently actually 

Sir G. Pray, sir, spare us the opinions of such persons. 
Talbot, I — I blush for you. 

Mid. There's no shame in you. You're worse than your 
companions who were here just now. 

Tal. {sharply). What do you mean by that ? 

Mid. Eh? 

Tal. Ladies whom you will mention with respect, if you 
please. If we have been ill-treated by them it is not for you, 
no, sir, nor you {to his father) to speak slightingly of them 
before us. 

Sir G. (aside). Brazening it out. To think that six months 
in this abominable city should have obliterated all sense of 
shame, all sense of self-respect. Oh, London, London, what a 
lengthy list of such sad cases lies at your debasing door ! 

Char. For my part, as regards Miss Melrose 

Mid. Don't mention her. (Aside.) How dare he speak 
of that regler lady and true woman in the very teeth of such — 
bah! 

Char. I am sorry to see you still bear a resentment in that 
quarter. 

Tal. And as I should never care for any woman but 
Mary 

Sir G. (Jndignantly). You insult me by mentioning her 
name at such a time. 

Tal. And as all is over between us 

Sir G. Ha ! ha ! I should think so. Eh, Middlewick? 

Mid. Depend upon it, the cousins know all. 

Sir G. Ay, ay, trust a woman for finding out all she wants, 
and sometimes a deuced deal more. This accounts for their 
suddenly departing for the Continent last week. 

Mid. Of course ; where no doubt they're endeavoring to dis- 
pel their sorrow. 

Sir G. Just so. In the vortex of Parisian society. 

Mid. Strolling up and down the bully-vards and the Bore 
de Boolong. Showing them sailer-faced foreigners what good, 
'olesome looking English gals are. 

Sir G. Yes, yes. (Warming.) I can see them. 

Mid. (working it up). So can I. 



62 OUR BOYS 

Sir G. The dear creatures ! That puss, Mary, has quite 
wound herself round my heart. An artful, winning little 
beauty. 

Mid. And as for the 'aughty one, we've got that friends 
I wouldn't see her wronged or insulted for Ugh ! 

Sir G. Aah ! 

( With exclamations of disgust^ they go up. Sir G. crosses at 
back to L. and j'oifis Mid. Char, and Tal. gaze bla?ik/y 
at each other ^ both stupefied,^ 

Tal. Charley, does your father drink? 

Char. No. Is lunacy hereditary in your family? 

Tal. Never heard of it. I say, football's a capital game, 
for iht feet. (Sir G. and Mid. come down l.) But the ball 
has a somewhat invidious and one-sided sort of place of it, 
hasn't he ? I don't care for any more abuse. 

{Turns to R., staiiding with his back to Char., who, while 
addressing the fathers, stafids facing them with his back 
to Tal. At the end of his speech he pulls Tal. around, 
who speaks facing the fathers with his back to Char. 
Thus they stand back to back on each speech. ~) 

Char. Nor I. ( To the fathers. ) As we appear by some 
unfortunate means of which we know nothing to have griev- 
ously offended everybody, explanations are, of course, impos- 
sible. {With solemnity and decision.') But as — before such 
an undertaking as 

Tal. Hear ! hear ! Such an undertaking as we are about 
to — in short, to undertake. 

Char. Quiet and uninterrupted companionship is desirable 
in order to finally settle our plans regarding emigration. 

{Both the fathers start. Char, goes up and opens door in 
fiat, and then down r.) 

Tal. Just so. And you, having once turned us out, must 
not feel surprised if we 

{Shrugs his shoulders. Goes up, gets Sir G.'s hat from table 
up R, c, then down c. and hands it formally to SiR G.) 

Mid. Em — emigration ! 

{Goes up and crosses down r. to Char.) 



OUR BOYS 63 

Sir G. (l. c). Are you mad, sir? Do you know the time 
of the year — winter ? 

Mid. Why, confound it, Charley — I mean, Charles — you're 
not going to leave me — to leave England, I mean ? What are 
you both dreaming of? 

(Sir G. to l.) 

Tal. Nothing now ; we've woke up. 
Sir G. And where would you - 



Char. Queensland, or else, perhaps 

(Sir G. goes up to back of table. Tal. crosses to fireplace?^ 

Mid. Charley, I can't bear this; you're a-driving me des- 
prit. If — if you go you'll — 3^ou'll break viy heart ! Dauimy, 
I can't play the Roman father no longer ! 

{Sinks into a chair y r. of table,') 

Sir G. {aside). He's given in — I knew he would. If he 
hadn't, I must have done, and it's best as it is. He-hem ! 
We have been — a — hasty — perhaps, when we were concealed 

in those rooms — a [Breaks down.) Talbot — Talbot 

(Tal. looks at him — he immediately becomes frigid.) In my 

case much is at stake. You are my so7i — my heir ( With 

severity.) I — I command you to give up this mad notion. 

{He is standi?ig in a proud and authoritative attitude — a con- 
trast to Mid., who is sitting crushed and tearful.) 

Mid. {seated ^. of table). Charley — I — I — implore yon \ 

{Slight pause on picture,) 

Positions 
Sir G. 
Mid. O {Table) 
Char. ° {Chair) Tal. 

Tal. (l., coldly). I regret my inability to obey you. 
Char, (r., same tone). Talbot has replied for both. 
Sir G. {almost overcome). And this — this is the result of 
our much vaunted systems. Even a rod of iron will 

(Vio. and Mary have entered door in flat.) 

Vio. {down R., to Char.). Will rust, Sir Geoffry. 



64 OUR BOYS 

Mary {down l., to Tal.). And the truest steel may fail 
you when most you may rely on it. 

Vio. Oh, Charley, forgive me — we know all now. 
Mary. And we're so ashamed of ourselves 1 

{The young couples talk eagerly,^ 

Sir G. {at back of table ; looking amazed ; to girls). Why 
— why aren't you on the Continent ? 

Mary. Why aren't you at the Cattle Show ? 

Vio. {to Char.). I never imagined you saw me in the street. 

Mid. {rising). Here, what's this? {To r. c, to Vio.) Why 
ain't you abroad? {To l. c, to Mary.) Yes, abroad. {To 
Sir G.) I'll be hanged if we ain't. {Goes up l. c. to Sir G.) 

Vio. Fancy the two old gentlemen hiding themselves so 
absurdly, and our having such horrible 

Mary. But highly natural 

Tal. No, no, «^/-natural 

Mary. Suspicions. 

Mid. We can't have been, and yet they seem to be 

Ha! ha! 

{Gives a violent start on seeing Clar.'s bonnet in chair L. 

of table, ) 

Tal. Upon my life, Charley, that jolly old firework, your 
father, ought to be //// out. 

Mid. {picking up bonnet). What's that, eh? 

Sir G. {seizing it). Yes ! No lady was ever seen in such 
a monstrosity as that. Combining as it does the concentrated 
incongruity of Covent Garden Market with the accumulated 
imbecility of the Burlington Arcade. 

{The girls look surprised at the young men^ who can't explain,) 

Vio. It is a bonnet. 

Mary. And a hideous one. 

Mid. The question is, whose is it ? 

Enter Clar., d. f. 

Clar. Mine, if you please — don't crush it. 

{Comes downy takes it,) 

Girls. Miss Champneys ! 



OUR BOYS 65 

Tal. Aunt I 

Sir G. {severe again). So, Clarissa — madam, you not only 
come up to town against my express commands — but — but in 
an article of attire which is simply 

Mid. Loud — oh, yes, you're a highly sensible woman, but 
it is loud. 

Clar. That's your opinion. / paid Mr. Warrington to 
discover my nephew, and notwithstanding your threats, Geoffry, 
I preferred to brave your anger rather than share your regret, 
when you had perhaps found your son — the victim of a severe 
father's system — (crossing down c. to Tal.) either in the streets 
or gone Heaven knows v/here. My dear nephew — {crossing to 
Char.) Mr. Middlewick {shaking hafids), I've heard how 
you behaved to him. But you're two scarecrows. I've got a 
fowl at the kitchen fire, and as it's only enough for two, we'll 
all go round to luncheon at Sir Geoffry's hotel, whilst ^<7// 

{Goes up toward door in flat.) 

Mid. Polish off the poultry. Brayvo ! 

Sir G. {severely). What, sir? 

Mid. It's no good, don't look severe, Sir Geoffry. {Goes 
to him.) It don't suit you. 

Sir G. {chafing). But my own sister — a Champneys, cook- 
ing a fowl in a lodging-house kitchen, and I'm positively cer- 
tain spoiling it — defying my authority and 

Vio. {crossing to Sir G., brings him down c. ; she has 
slipped her arm through his). Sir Geoffry, dear Sir Geoffry, 
don't you think we've all been a little wrong ? 

(Clar. talks with Mid., up c.) 

Sir G. {pleased). Eh? 

Vio. You, especially? 

SirG. {huffed). He-hem! 

Vio. And that we all ought to beg each other's pardons? 

Mary {crossing to Sir G. on other side). Yes, dear Sir 
Geoffry, and promise to forget the past, and never do so any 
more? 

Vio. Eh, Sir Geoffry? {Squeezes his arm.) 

Mary. Eh, dear Sir Geff. ? {Same business.) 

SirG. {pleased, and unable to deny it). Hal ha! Sir 
Geff. indeed ! {Looks at each admiringly.) You're a couple 
of syrens. I feel you would make me forgive anything^ — except 
that bonnet, 



66 OUR BOYS 

Char, I must own it staggered me, I knew it couldn't be 
Belinda's. 

Both Girls {dropping ^vs^ G/s arm^ turnings facing boys). 
Who's Belinda? 

(Mary to Tal. Vio. to Char.) 

Tal. Ha! ha! A slave. 

SiK G. What? {Crosses L., the7i up,) 

Tal. Slave of the ring — comes when you pull the bell, you 
know. (Vio. goes r. to Char. ; Mary goes l. to Tal. Enter 
Bel.) One of the best girls in England, and the best nurse in 
the universe, as / well know. 

Bel. {coming down r. c). That fowl's a-frizzling itself to 
regler fiddle-strings. Why, everybody seems to know every- 
body else. 

{CiaPiR. joi7ts Sir G. up stage.) 

Mid. {coming down l. c, beckoning her to him). Here. 
Have you — have you got a young man ? A sweetheart, you 
know? 

Bel. (c). a young man ! He ! he ! And me two-and- 
twenty ! 

Mid. Just so. What is he? I mean, what's his business? 
How does he get his living ? 

Bel. He's a butterman. 

Mid. Is he though ? Tell him to call round to-morrow at 
that address {giving card)j and I'll buy him the best business 
in the Boro'. (Bel. goes up dazed. Sir G. comes down L. c.) 
Sir Geoffry, they're our own again — our boys. 

Sir G. No, no, somebody else's. 

{Points to the young couples spooning, Clar. is explaining to 
Bel., then Clar. sits r. of table,) 

WARN curtain* 

Mid. All in good time. {Laughs,) You and your rod of 
iron, bless your 'art, it wasn't a bar of soap. 

Sir G. {shaking hands). Ha! ha! I'm afraid so, and jv^^* 
— you a father of ancient Rome ! Ha I ha ! Greece is more 
in your line. 

{They go up l. c.) 



OUR BOYS 67 

Vio. {to Char.). Yes, yes, Charley, I know I was blind to 
my own shortcomings, and was haughty, headstrong, and 
capricious, whilst j;^«, Mary 

Mary. I don't think I've been anything in particular, and 
if I have I'm not going to admit it. 

Tal. Quite right, Mary, nothing like being thoroughly sat- 
isfied \\\i\\ your self y unless it's being more than satisfied with me. 

Sir G. (Jo l. of table^, Clarissa, I was foolish just now. I 
beg your pardon. Talbot, dear boy — {down l., shaking hafids^ 
crossifig R.) Charles — {shaking hands^ I — I see my error. 

Mid. {comifig doivn i.. c.'). Ha! ha! 

Sir G. (r. c, stiffly a?id abruptly at him). And other peo- 
ple's. (Mid. sits R. of tab/e. Sm G., aside to audience.) I'm 
so happy I — but I mustn't admit it — a — yet. ( To them. Goes 
up back of table.) We haven't understood each other, borne 
with each other, we haven't shown sufficient of the glorious old 
principle of ** Give and take." Sister, boys and girls, old friend 
(to Mid.), hot tempers, hasty judgments, extreme crotchets, 
thick-skinned prejudice, theory and rule run rampant, ignoring 
the imperfections of pure human nature — these, henceforth, we 
throw overboard and rise to brighter realms, even as the as- 
piring aeronaut flings away his heavy ballast and floats serenely 
through the cloudless sky. 

RING curtain* 
{Positions of characters at end of play.) 

Bel. Sir G. (Standing ) 

Clar. {Seated) Q Mid. {Seated) 
{Table) 
Char. (Standing) Tal. {Standing) 

Vio. {Seated) Mary {Seated) 

Melody in Orchestra swells as 
CURTAIN FALLS ON PICTURE 



IMPORTANT 

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